


By Design

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre series. Athos is sent on a solo mission by Treville which turns out very badly indeed.  Constance and Treville are there to help him recover.  Written for the kink meme prompt in the notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains gang rape, pissing and explicit violence. It also contains every shameless h/c trope possible.
> 
> Prompt: _Athos falls in the hands of the bad guys, is raped both with cocks and a pistol barrel and then is pissed on by his captors. If possible, I'd love Treville to be the one he tells what's happened/helps him, but that's optional. Happy with any sort of slash pairing as an adjunct to this or gen. Either would be fab._

The matter is of utmost confidentiality and so Athos, alone, has been entrusted to deliver the message to the Duke's envoys. He’ll return to the garrison afterwards where Porthos and Aramis will doubtless be waiting for him. They'll have a night out at their favourite alehouse, during which time he'll get drunk, fall to the floor and wait for his friends to pick him up. They'll laugh at his condition and then help him back to his lodgings. This is how the day is supposed to progress.

It does _not_ go this way. Athos meets the men, black cloaked and dressed in Spanish livery, but immediately he knows something's not right: there are more than he's expecting, the accents are wrong, and for some reason they're offended by the very presence of a King's Musketeer. Huguenots perhaps. Criminals who've been imprisoned by them in the past -- by him even. 

Closing in, the men mask their faces with bandanas, surrounding him before he has time to evade capture. When they draw him from his horse he's ready with pistol and sword, wounding one with a shot to the belly and at least three more with his blade. It's not enough, of course, and as he's dragged to the ground and disarmed it's with his friends' names on his lips. He's never had comrades before, brothers for whom he would lay down his life, or trust completely with his own. For once, through no fault of their own, they're not here to help him.

Athos is strong; two years of training with the King's own regiment has made him this way and he doesn't succumb easily, but with him alone against at least seven opponents he has no chance of escape. Drawn swiftly, his dagger wounds one more fellow, but the slice to the collarbone only causes anger. A vicious knee to his genitals is proof of that and he's further winded by a fist to his solar plexus.

"What say we have some proper fun with our Musketeer?" says a voice, icy cold and ready to cause trouble.

Athos knows he is _indeed_ in deep trouble. Their meeting spot is a quiet junction of roads to the north east of Paris: a clearing within a thicket of trees, the nearby river gushing past to mask the sound of any cries for help. He only hopes his death will be swift.

"Strip him." 

The doublet is ripped from him, buttons flying off, seams tearing, as two of the brutes hold him down and another makes short shrift of the remainder of his clothing. Even his underthings are removed. Perhaps the humiliation of leaving him naked and bloody will be enough for them. He doubts it though and prays again for death.

The ring leader squats next to him, a blade pressed against Athos's throat as he gives out orders. "Fuck that noble French face of his," he says to one man. The point of the dagger jabs into soft skin. "And you, soldier. Bite him and you die."

The chosen man sits astride Athos’s chest, his breeches open, a hand working furiously at his prick to rouse its interest. When that erection thrusts inside Athos’s mouth he snaps his jaws shut, blood running into his throat, and he has the small satisfaction of hearing the man scream in agony. He clamps tighter as the dagger point draws a thin line down the side of his neck. Kill me, is all he can think. You promised. Kill me and throw me in the river.

"You pestilent piece of shit," sobs his victim.

Choking, Athos releases the man and spits out a mouthful of blood. "Damn you to hell."

"There's no place for me in your Papist purgatory," sneers the leader as the barrel of his pistol is forced between Athos's lips. "Shall I blow his brains out?" he says in a strange, sing-song voice. "No. I think we'll have some fun first. Fucking a corpse is always so disappointing. Turn him over, boys."

Manhandled into a prone position Athos closes his eyes then buries his face in the sweet smelling grass as he remembers the creak of a branch and blue petals drifting on the breeze.

Something cold and vicious hammers its way inside him. The hilt of a dagger? The barrel of a pistol? He's split in two and the pain is so intense that his brain is awash with its own narcotic relief. Wetness runs onto his thighs, trickling hot over his skin. He will not cry. He will not beg. He'll only wait for death.

"That'll ease the path," laughs the leader and his voice is thick with pleasure and so close to Athos that he can feel huffs of excitement on his bare skin.

A heavy weight compresses him until he's struggling to breathe, leaves and loam pushing into his mouth and nose. He's mounted like a bitch. Pounding thrusts damage his torn insides, the spill of salt an extra agony to bear. Another man takes him. Another. Another. Yet another.

"He's too wet," complains a voice.

"Roll him over and use his mouth then."

"Not after what he did to Besnard earlier. I'll have to fuck him harder is all."

The two laugh together and Athos wonders what it is that turns men into monsters.

Held by the hair, head yanked back until the chain around his neck is broken, he's taken again and again, brutalised until he's blessed with a loss of consciousness. He wakes to a final act of humiliation as they surround him, letting loose streams of urine that sting his eyes and flood his mouth and nose until he's drowning in piss.

The leader crouches, dark eyes staring at him from above the bandana. "I won't kill you, Musketeer and I won't leave you a weapon to kill yourself, but thank you for the evening's entertainment. It was indeed a pleasure to have you. Pass on my gratitude to Captain Treville."

Mounting up, they ride in circles around him, jeering him as they go. "Remember, what I said," shouts the leader as he spurs his horse on and leads his band of men away.

Curling into a foetal position Athos is left alone to lick his wounds: naked, bleeding and torn to shreds. All things but dead.

 

\--- 

 

Crawling to the river's edge he immerses himself in the icy water, staying there until the shivering subsides and a deathly cold is closing in fast. The easiest thing would be to let go of life, but these men want revenge against all the Musketeers and he must stay alive long enough to warn Treville of the danger.

Dragging himself out of the water he dresses slowly in ragged clothes and then collects his horse from where she is grazing. Sensing his distress she whinnies at him as he manages, with great difficulty, to mount her. They’ve damaged him badly; wetness seeps out of him and he has no idea whether it originates from spendings or blood.

Used to taking care of her owner when he's worse the wear from drink, the horse is gentle with Athos on the journey back to Paris. Dismounting with a muted groan outside his lodgings he slaps her on the hind quarters, knowing that she will return to the garrison stables close by where she'll be fed and watered by the grooms.

Every step is agony and with grim determination he makes it up the flight of wooden stairs and to his room. Lighting a candle from one of the lanterns in the hallway he undresses and stares at the heap of ruined garments on the floor. He has no choice but to ask for assistance.

"Mme Bonacieux," he calls, wrapping a thin blanket around his near naked body. "Could I trouble you a moment?"

His landlady is remarkably young and pretty but steadfast in her ways. She's there in a second, opening the door of his room and bustling in with the air of someone many years older. "How can I help, Monsieur?" And then she sees him and her reaction tells a story. "Athos," she breathes. "My dear man, what has happened to you?"

"Don't worry yourself." Athos holds himself together by a thread. "I was hoping you could repair my uniform, only I have no other. I can pay well."

"Of course." She sits next to him on the bed and, ignoring the destroyed clothes, she turns instead to the destroyed man, examining the bite marks and cuts that she can see above the edging of the blanket. "Oh, Athos. Who did this? What did they do to you?"

Athos shivers as the shame overwhelms him. He cannot tell her. He doubts he can tell anyone.

"I have water heating in the copper," she continues. "I'll fill a bath for you. Plenty of salt will help with these wounds."

He's grateful, but unsure whether he can make it down the stairs, let alone into the tub. "Don't put yourself to any trouble, Madame."

"It's no bother," she says with hands on hips, a little of that resilient spirit returned to her. "You won't look after yourself so someone has to do it for you." Gathering the heap of garments in her arms she hurries to the door. "I'll help you when the bath is ready. Bonacieux is not here at present so we'll have to manage as best we can."

"Do not let anyone see me this way," he begs and is thankful again for her kindness when she nods and leaves him to his thoughts.

Alone now Athos lies on his side, reaching under the bed for a bottle. For once he is grateful for his past which has made him welcome the oblivion of drink. Tonight he needs it more than ever and he swallows the wine greedily until it is almost half gone. It's only the sound of a commotion downstairs that prevents him from finishing the rest at record speed.

"I'm looking for Athos. His horse has returned to the garrison without him."

"He’s not here, Monsieur," says Mme Bonacieux. "Perhaps try the tap rooms. That's where he's usually to be found."

"I'll see for myself, thank you." As Athos hears the captain's footsteps pounding up the stairs he rolls over, gasping with agony as he faces the wall, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders.

"Athos, what is your news? Are you drunk already, man?" Treville grabs him by a shoulder and turns him roughly in the bed. The bottle falls to the floor and Athos cannot prevent the agonised cry from escaping him at this harsh treatment.

"You will leave this house right now, sir." Madame Bonacieux is determined, but Treville brushes her aside and kneels by the bed.

"Athos," he says gently. "Was this the work of the Duke's men?"

"It was not as we were led to believe, Sir." Pushing past the assault Athos focuses on the events leading up to it. "They were not Spanish. A mixed bunch of nationalities I think, though I’m not certain. The ring leader was a protestant for sure." Footsteps scurry back and forth and Athos is bewildered, weak from it all. "There was a name, but not the man in charge." He struggles to recall it, his mind growing wearier by the second. "Bernard or perhaps Besnard?"

Treville breathes in sharp and quick.

"The salt bath is ready," says Madame Bonacieux. "Seeing as you've barged your way into my home, Captain, you can at least help us with it."

"Gladly," says the Captain and still kneeling by the bed he turns to Athos. "How shall we do this for the best?"

Leave me to fester and die, is what Athos would like to say. Instead he manages a half smile. "As quickly as possible?"

"Good man," says Treville.

Biting his lip until he can taste iron, Athos allows them to help him to his feet and when the blanket falls from his shoulders there is a perceptible moment's silence from the captain and a horrified intake of breath from Mme Bonacieux. It is as Athos had feared; he is damaged internally and bloody from his injuries. A survivor he might be, but he cannot help but wish for the bleeding to turn out mortal.

The journey from chamber to tub is near enough impossible to cope with. Athos is afraid he may have passed out on the way and ended up in a shoulder lift over the captain's back when his entry into the hot salt water proves both sudden and shocking to his system. Glancing to his right he sees his discarded small clothes dyed crimson.

"I'll make up your bed," says Mme Bonacieux. "And some beef stew won't go amiss."

Athos shakes his head at the last suggestion and, to his relief, no one argues. Food is the furthest thing from his mind at present.

Treville draws up a chair and sits with elbows resting on his knees, staring down at the floor. When he looks up there is murder in his eyes. "How many were there?"

"Ten, maybe a dozen. I'm not certain." The bath is too hot; Athos is dizzy and lifeless, but at least he feels cleansed.

"How many raped you?"

The captain has never been one to mince his words and Athos reacts as if he's been struck, defences on full alert. He's not thought of it in such terms before. Throughout the bible, throughout history, women are the ones who suffer rape.

"All of them I believe." He’d stopped counting after the eighth man spent inside him.

Treville breathes in again, visibly shaken. "I'll order a physician to visit here in the morning."

"You will not," says Athos with conviction. "Nor will you tell anyone what has happened to me other than that I was beaten. If either Porthos or Aramis so much as hear one word more then I'll leave the regiment with immediate effect."

"Athos, you don't need to bear this with anything other than anger," says Treville. "The only shame attached is to those that did it."

Athos looks up at him, his eyes narrowing. "When they'd finished fucking me, they pissed all over me then left me as a calling card for you," he says. "How am I supposed to feel anything but shame at that?"

“You’re angry with me,” says Treville, cocking his head to one side. “And you have every right to be. I should have learned by now that even the simplest of missions can always turn out to be a hazard.”

“Get me out of this damn bath,” says Athos, leaning forward in the tub and grimacing at the pain. He’s not angry with Treville; he’s angry at _everyone_. Except perhaps Porthos and Aramis and, of course, Mme Bonacieux who hurries in a with a fresh bucket of hot water.

“No, you don’t. Soak a while longer,” she says, tipping it into the bath. “It’ll do you good, make a change from soaking yourself in all that wine.” With tenderness in her eyes she examines the cuts and bite marks that cover Athos’s upper torso. “I have some liniment for these. I’ll be back in a while; I’ll bring it with me then.”

“Your landlady is a gift from Heaven,” says Treville as he watches her go.

“She is,” agrees Athos, but once again this is not what’s uppermost in his mind. After today’s events he’s worried for the safety of his fellow Musketeers. “Captain, you know these men. I can tell that the name _Besnard_ means something to you. Whatever revenge they intend to mete out then this is only the start of it. What is this about?”

He’s suffered in every way possible; he has the right to know what reasons lay behind his assault.

Treville steeples his hands and begins to talk. “Besnard is the henchman of a soldier named Vallion, both former Musketeers who were members of this regiment long before you three were commissioned.

There was a series of brutal attacks on Catholics in the area, but for months no one could find out who was responsible. Finally I caught Vallion and his men in the act, setting fire to a convent and razing it to the ground. There was hearsay that the nuns had been tortured and worse, but no survivors lived to tell of what actually happened. The men were dishonourably discharged from the regiment then convicted of arson and grievous assault, but there was not enough evidence to hang them for their crimes.” 

Treville rubs a weary hand across his eyes. “Athos, I’m sorry. If I’d been forewarned that these men were to be released from prison then I would have been extra vigilant.” He looks up, concern written clear on his face. “There will be justice, I promise, but for now I need you to take time and recover from this as best you can so you can resume active service as soon as possible.”

Athos feels cold at the thought of returning to his duties. He’s empty of everything besides hate. He cannot be a Musketeer.

“I know it won’t be easy, but I’ll be here for you every step of the way,” says Treville, correctly assessing Athos’s thoughts on the subject. "After all, where would I be without my lieutenant by my side as a voice of reason?" 

By now Athos's skin is turning pruned and he looks to Treville for help in getting him out of the water. It’s a difficult task and, in the end, Mme Bonacieux is required as a prop whilst the captain partially lifts him from the tub. Finally, after a few precarious moments, he’s standing on the rag rug by the fire and drying off with a towel.

“The bleeding appears to have stopped for now,” says Treville as Athos suffers the indignity of a cursory examination whilst Mme Bonacieux dresses the worst of his wounds. 

“You’ll be black and blue tomorrow,” she says, painting the majority of his body with strong smelling ointment. “They’ve worked you over good and proper, my dear.”

Athos is overwhelmed by her kindness and her practical nature. “Thank you,” he says in a monotone.

“No need for words,” says the lady. “You can thank me in two ways: firstly, by getting better and secondly by calling me Constance rather than Madame.” She hands him a pile of clothes. “Here, I think these will fit. Just mended garments that haven’t been collected by their owners. They’ll do until I repair your uniform. Captain, you’ll help him get dressed and back upstairs to bed.”

It’s an order rather than a request and both men are far too used to military discipline to do anything other than obey her.

Dressing is taxing enough on its own, but the staircase, afterwards, is a mountain to climb. The extreme pain from every part of his body is too much to bear and, at the halfway point, Athos slumps helpless against Treville.

“What’s happened here?” comes a booming voice from the hallway that can only belong to Porthos.

“I’d blame the usual culprit,” says Aramis, racing up the stairs two at a time, “but I can see from those cuts and bruises and the shiner of an eye that wine is not the cause of this.” He takes one side and Porthos the other, leaving the captain, exhausted from lugging a lifeless man about for the past few hours, to help them negotiate doorways and assist in getting Athos between clean sheets. Despite the humiliation it's an utter relief to have his friends here as support.

Once they’ve chivvied him into his bed the conversation turns serious. “What went wrong?” growls Porthos. “I thought it was supposed to be an easy errand job. Don’t look like one to me.”

“It was a trap,” explains Treville ruefully. “Some former Musketeers with an eye for vengeance. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, but in the meantime keep vigilant. These men are killers.”

“They’ve half killed you, my friend,” says Aramis, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking Athos over. “Dear God, that’s a bite mark,” he says, staring in horror at Athos’s left shoulder. “What kind of animals are these people?”

“Unpleasant ones,” drawls Athos, and if he were well enough he’d run. “Pass me that brandy, would you.”

Without question Treville hands him the bottle and Athos takes it, unable to mask the grimace of pain as he moves to a more upright position.

"Let me see to your injuries," says Aramis. "I'm sure Madame has some medical supplies I can make use of."

"He's been looked after," says Treville brusquely.

"No!" says Athos at the same time and the vehemence of both these statements cause Aramis and Porthos to stare at them in confusion. Athos chews his lower lip and then takes a long pull from the bottle. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself.

"He's in safe hands, Captain," says Aramis to Treville. "Feel free to leave if you have other matters to attend to."

Aramis must think he’ll have more chance of weeding out the truth when it's just the three of them present. In any other instance he'd be correct, but for many reasons Athos needs to keep today's events as private as possible, most importantly for the sake of his friends who, if they found out, would endanger their own lives in the name of revenge.

"I'll stay," says Treville curtly. "I have nowhere else to be."

 

\---

 

The brandy helps Athos sink into a fitful sleep: one that's filled with horrifying dreams in which he's raped repeatedly until there's nothing left of him but a bloody mess that soaks into barren ground. He's lost everything; his previous life has stolen away any chance of a wife and family and now this has destroyed all other hope of companionship. He is desolate. 

With eyes open, the emptiness of his future seems all too real. When they're closed he's flooded with images: jeering faces that stare down at him as he's fucked by every implement to hand. At first the tears fall without him even being aware of them, but then he's torn apart by great wracking sobs that leave him choking and breathless, yet still unable to stop crying. Chest heaving in soundless, helpless waves he curls onto his side and submits to his anguish.

The warm hand on his shoulder frightens him at first, but when it lays still, taking the greatest of care not to hurt him, he relaxes into its touch. 

"That's it, my lad, cry it out. You'll feel better for it afterwards."

When the sobbing eventually subsides, Athos turns with difficulty to see the outline of Treville seated next to him. He has no idea what the hour is, but there's a glimmer of light through the window so it seems the captain has stayed with him throughout the night. 

After helping Athos with a chamber pot Treville sees him back into bed. "Sleep again if you can. I'll be here with you."

Athos falls silent and still, exhausted from crying and yet unable to drift off--a would-be corpse waiting for death--but then Treville's hand returns to his shoulder and it’s a thing of comfort in an otherwise empty world.

"I would sooner have died myself than had this happen to you, my dearest man." The words are a low whisper, barely audible above the sounds of life coming from outside as dawn breaks and the world wakes with it, but Athos hears them and believes them.

 

\---

 

The next time he opens his eyes it's to the sound of footsteps and the clanking of dishes. Mme Bonacieux is hurrying into the room, armed with enough food for the entire regiment as she places the tray on a nearby table.

"Really, I'm not hungry," says Athos, sitting up as much as he can manage and biting back a hiss of pain.

"You'll never recover if you don't eat," says Mme Bonacieux. “So, do as you’re told.”

"Yes, Madame." 

She looks at Athos, her arms folded across her chest. 

"Yes, Constance," he says, amending his mistake. "Maybe some bread and milk." Not to put too fine a point on it, what goes in must come out and he's truly dreading that part.

"We won't let you starve yourself," says Treville with a knowing look. "Not for any reason." Getting to his feet and stretching aching limbs he collects his hat from the top of the chest of drawers. "I have some regimental matters to deal with, but I'll be back later to help you bathe." He places a hand carefully on Athos's shoulder. "Now eat up and do as Mme Bonacieux says."

Athos stares at his hands and almost manages a smile. He has a definite feeling that this is what family life is supposed to be like: something he never experienced personally, with his mother away at court and his father, an ambassador for the King, living in England. He and Thomas saw them occasionally and even spent time in London as children. It was exciting, but not what you'd call familial.

"I'll make certain he behaves, Captain, don't you worry," says Constance, her arms still folded in that customary pose, and both men exchange a glance, knowing that it would be a brave man who'd ever cross her.

Once alone, Athos eats a few mouthfuls and then pushes the tray aside. There's time enough for food when he's recovered. Wary of sleeping, terrified he might wake in another fit of hysterics, he props himself up in the bed and plans his revenge. Hours pass, how many of them he's not sure, and then he hears two sets of footsteps echoing down the hallway.

"How's our patient today?" says Aramis, breezing into the room with Porthos a few paces behind.

"Better, I think," says Athos. It's not entirely truthful; he's still ripped to shreds and is suffering a low grade fever, but he doesn't long for death _quite_ as much as he did yesterday.

"Good to hear," says Aramis, his mouth thinning into a line. "Although you look a little flushed for that to be fact."

"I noticed your weapons were missing," says Porthos. "So I did a hunt around and came up with these." He places a rapier, parrying dagger and brace of pistols on the scratched surface of the chest of drawers. "Good job you weren't carrying that with you." His eyes dart to the Francis I sword that's mounted on the wall.

"Thank you, my friend." Athos is grateful--he'd felt vulnerable without them--however Musketeers are not rich men and he has an idea Porthos may have temporarily returned to light fingered ways in order to replenish his weapon stocks.

"You're welcome. Can't be a soldier without arms." Porthos gazes at the array of food on the table. "You finished with this?" he asks and, after receiving a nod from Athos, immediately begins to pick away at the breakfast tray.

Aramis has other things on his mind as he sits at Athos's bedside, worry etched deep as he leans forwards and speaks softly. "Just from looking at you I can see you're in a tremendous amount of pain. You're running a fever, the bite on your neck needs cleaning and, if the bruises on your body are as livid as the ones I can see on your arms, then you may well be suffering internal injuries."

Athos stares at him, willing him to stop speaking, but Aramis carries on.

"I must examine you to make sure there’s nothing urgent enough for a surgeon to be called. Treville is a good captain but no medic."

"I've seen a physician," says Athos stubbornly.

"Fine words but a lie nonetheless," says Aramis. "Now, strip off and roll over onto your belly so I can tend to you. If you continue to be difficult I'll have to employ Porthos's skill as anaesthetist and he's never that delicate with his punches."

Athos will not have them knowing his business. Huddling into the corner with the bedclothes pulled around him he glares at Aramis -- a wounded animal in distress. "I told you I'd been seen to. Now get out of here and leave me alone."

" _Athos_! Stop being a fool and let Aramis look after you." Porthos spreads butter onto a huge doorstep of bread and sprinkles it with salt.

"Go," says Athos again, that simmering rage coming to the fore. He's shaking: furious that no one will allow him any control over his own life.

Aramis rests a gentling hand on Athos's arm. "You're not in your right mind at present and it has nothing to do with brandy or fever. We'll leave you alone for now, but know this and do not forget it; you will always be our friend and a thousand angry words will not alter that."

Before they leave Aramis opens his leather satchel and takes out a glass vial and a small ceramic pot which he places on the table along with a wad of bandage. "The tincture will bring down the fever. The salve will help heal any open wounds so tell Treville to use it on you as often as possible."

Athos is expecting, at very least, a disappointed look from Porthos, but instead both men depart for the garrison with nothing but a tangible air of concern about them. Bitterness and regret welling up inside him Athos chokes back the need to scream, to vomit, to destroy the few things left in his small and hopeless world.

He loves Porthos and Aramis with all his heart. The two men are closer than a couple: so close it's hard to ascertain, at times, where one begins and the other ends. They're comfortable in their love with a bond that will never be broken, and for a while now Athos has been of the impression that they'd like him to join them in their bed. Before Vallion it was something he'd considered many times over -- most often at night in the privacy of his rooms. How good would it feel to be loved by two such men?

The truth of the matter is that he’ll never now know. Not because of his earlier temper tantrum--he’ll always be forgiven such aberrations--but because they are overwhelming and he is more broken than ever.

 

\---

 

"I've seen neither Porthos nor Aramis for days," says Athos as he rests back in the chair.

"Keep still, man. This is hard enough to manage without you talking at the same time. I'm no barber." Treville leans over him, brushing off the trimmings of beard that have been cut away then lathering up Athos's face. He wields the cut-throat in his hand. "Do you want your nose to remain in one piece?"

"You don't _have_ to do it."

"I'm sick and tired of talking to that forest of hair when I come to visit." Treville smiles; it's mellow with warmth and just for Athos -- a league away from their working relationship as captain and lieutenant. "Besides, I like to look after you."

He's barely spent a night away from Athos's side except when he's been called away on soldiering business. Constance has brought in an old armchair so that he can rest more easily and he has his own set of blankets. She laughs merrily and calls him Mother Hen.

Athos takes a swig of that ever present brandy when it dawns on him that he must, eventually, be left to his own devices.

"Enough of that." Treville steals the bottle from his hand and leans in, once again, to glide the razor across Athos's skin, stripping away the excess hair and washing the instrument clean in a bowl of warm water. "I vowed to look after you until you were better and so I will." He pauses, blade raised symbolically. "I also promised you justice. Vallion has gone to ground for now, but he will surface soon and Porthos and Aramis are on his trail."

Athos's eyes widen with concern for his friends.

"They'll be safe," says Treville, understanding without need for words. He shapes the beard with careful strokes of the cut-throat. "They have a dozen good men with them and they’ll report back here before taking any action. I won't risk their safety after what happened to you."

Athos is grateful for every care Treville shows and every kind act he does; he'll be forever in his debt. Wiping his face clean with a damp towel he strokes a palm over the neat beard and smooth skin and feels almost human again.

"Now to your wounds," says Treville. "Lie on the bed so I can see to the ones on your back."

Athos does as he's told with no fear in his heart at being in such a vulnerable position with another man. It's taken a while for his anxiety to subside, even with the captain.

"These are healing up nicely," says Treville as he rubs the salve in. "How are your other parts?"

Athos smirks at the captain's unexpected delicacy over this matter. It's been three weeks and he is, as far as he can tell, back to normal. "Well," he answers truthfully.

"I believe then, my lad, it's time for you to get back to the training yard," says Treville, "We can't have you lazing about forever."

"Not yet." Several times Athos has looked at the outside world from his window and sees the city as he never did before: dirty and full of danger with rottenness at its core.

"Aramis and Porthos will return from duty in a day or two," says Treville. "Surely you trust them enough to get you back to fitness?"

Athos says nothing. How can he tell his commander that he's too frightened to make the short journey from home to the garrison?

 

\---

 

Dressed in civilian clothes and carrying a shopping basket Athos scowls at the world and everyone in it. At least he can content himself with the comforting rattle of weapons strapped to his person.

"Take that miserable look off your face," says Constance, deliberately bashing into him with her own basket of goods. "Just some vegetables to buy and then we're done for the day."

She and Treville are in cahoots. It's the only explanation. Why else would he be dragged around Paris, acting as packhorse for his landlady who appears to have no concern at all for his welfare?

"There, that's it," she says as she loads pounds of beans and potatoes into Athos's already overladen basket and they trudge back to the house, avoiding the filth that's streaming down the middle of the road.

Apparently, he's not off the hook yet. Woman's work, he thinks with a disgruntled sigh as he sits at the kitchen table, peeling the vegetables badly with a paring knife, ready to go into the pot.

"Drat!" exclaims Constance as she wipes her hands dry on her apron. "I forgot the neck of mutton. Be a dear and go and get some from the butchers for me. Bonacieux will have my guts for garters if I don't get these garments finished."

The world is conspiring against him, thinks Athos darkly as, once again, he leaves for the market.

 

\---

 

When Athos first puts on his uniform after a month in civvies it feels ill fitting and wrong. Taking several deep gulps of wine he straps on weapons and accoutrements and finally tops it off with his hat -- a new one made to the same design as his old which had been lost that day.

 _That day_. Sometimes it feels as if nothing before then even existed: not his noble upbringing nor the dreaded hanging of his wife. Nor either the Musketeer regiment with its camaraderie and moral compass that guides him through life.

"Here's our Athos," says Constance, a wide smile on her face as she watches, hands on hips, as he clanks and creaks his way down the stairs. "I haven't seen _you_ in a while, Monsieur."

"Am I ready for this?" he asks as if she's his oracle and not just his friend.

"You are," she says simply, reaching up to kiss him on both cheeks then stripping the bottle of wine from his hand. "But you'll not be needing this."

He completes the short walk in record time, wanting to be free of the city streets, but realises what a mistake this was when he steps through the garrison threshold and into a world that seems alien. Not long ago this was his place of contentment. 

Looking to his left he sees Aramis and Porthos sparring with each other and a swift glance upward reveals Treville, who's leaning on the rail and surveying all from the walkway. These sights relax him a little and he's almost back to his old, less than friendly self when he’s surrounded by a host of familiar faces who greet him with joy, thankful for his safe return.

"Athos, good to have you back," says Porthos, handing him his training jacket. "Ready to be put through your paces? We'll go easy on you for the first ten minutes."

"Well, five at least," says Aramis with a grin and, sword in hand, he waits as Athos takes off his doublet and straps on the padded jerkin.

He's happy fighting with the rapier. True to his word Aramis works him hard, but swordsmanship is a long learned skill that's not easily forgotten and his only problem is a distinct lack of energy. The hand to hand combat is another matter entirely. It might be Porthos barrelling towards him, but every so often Athos's eyes deceive him and he's left crawling backwards, frozen in fear with Porthos quietly reassuring him that everything is fine.

"Back to work," orders Treville when the breaks in between sparring sessions grow too long. 

By the time the day has ended Athos is suffering from exhaustion and aching all over. Aramis, never a one to hold back, is furious with his commander and is treated to a private dressing down for his outspoken behaviour. Athos doesn't know what passed between them, nor does he wish to find out. What he does know is that the next few days of training are equally as hard going and Aramis no longer has any word of complaint.

 

\---

 

Slowly Athos is growing used to his new self and where he fits within the world. His confidence is on the up and up; no longer fearful of stepping over the Bonacieux doorstep he wears his Musketeer uniform with pride.

After another intensive training session he's on his way to join Aramis and Porthos, who have just returned from the Palace, for a night of card playing and drinking when there comes a voice from the shadows.

"You look well, Musketeer. It obviously suited you having my cock up your arse. Perhaps you'd like it there again?"

Athos reacts instantly, his elbow slamming back and winding Vallion as he turns, dagger in hand, to shove the man against the wall ready to slice him from ear to ear. His actions are automatic, but his mind is a mess; sick with terror, he's close to vomiting at having the bastard so close to him. 

The echoing blast of an explosion is a distraction. For a second Athos loses his momentum and Vallion wrests free as a discord of fire bells ring out loud through the streets.

"What could that be?" he says in that strange storyteller's voice. "Could it be the sound of your dear Captain Treville burning to death."

He disappears the way he came, back into the shadows, and Athos is torn apart. He should chase Vallion down, but he can't make that choice and instead races for the garrison, furious at himself for losing his grip in all ways and letting Vallion escape, but more than that, terrified that the man may have already enacted his revenge.

The streets are clouded with thick, dark smoke. Water is drawn from the Seine and carried by cartload to the garrison which is flickering orange in the half light. There's a sea of frantic activity as chains of men douse the flames with buckets and others operate hand pumps to stem the ferocity of the fire. 

Athos holds his scarf to his face and pushes through the crowd until he's inside the fortified building, checking through the dozens of burned soldiers that are being tended to by comrades, but not finding Treville amongst their number. Avoiding the stampede of horses that have been freed from the stables he searches the garrison, fear building by the second.

Aramis and Porthos arrive minutes after he does. "The captain?" asks Aramis breathlessly.

Athos shakes his head and looks at what's left of Treville's quarters. He's about to fight his way to the upper level when the support structure for the steps collapses and the three men stumble backwards, avoiding a cloud of burning embers that fill the air.

"I'm fine," shouts an angry voice from behind them. "Stop standing around spectating and get to work putting this fire out, or we'll be left with nothing to repair."

Athos's heart misses a beat in relief. The captain is blackened from soot, his shirt is singed and there’s a nasty looking burn to his chest and upper arm which will need attention, but he's white hot with anger and bristling with life. Not dead by Vallion's hand.

"Get to it, man," shouts Treville to Athos who, unlike Porthos and Aramis, is frozen to the spot, doing nothing to help in the battle to save the garrison.

"Yes, Sir." Athos joins a chain of soldiers, passing buckets forward along the line relentlessly until, after a full night's work, they've reduced the blaze to a smoulder. The framework of the building is still standing; there is a chance of repair.

 

\---

 

"I'm going to rename this boarding house _The Bonacieux Home for Wounded Soldiers_ ," says Constance as she carries a bowl of cool, boiled water up to Athos's room.

Treville is now bathed and lying supine on Athos's bed with Aramis leaning over him, cleaning the debris from the burn on his chest. "Stop fussing,” he says with a glower, “I've had worse injuries and carried on fighting."

“But we’re not at war, Sir,” says Porthos helpfully.

"And the only reason I fuss is to stop that wound festering and prevent it from becoming worse," says Aramis as he picks out the final splinters of charred material then washes it out with water then spirit. Applying some salve he dresses the burn with bandage and pats the captain on the shoulder. "All done. You can fight on now."

Treville sits up with a sigh of relief and pulls on a borrowed undershirt and some breeches. Constance's supply of spare clothing is depleting by the second. "We cannot assume this was anything other than an accident," he says wearily. "A stray spark in the powder store is the most likely culprit."

Athos has been staring out of the window since they got here, his eyes fixed firmly on the streets below. They’re being watched; he can sense it. "It was Vallion."

"You can't know that for certain," says Treville.

Athos turns to look at them, cold and calm. "I can. He approached me in the street moments before the garrison blew up." His anger returns tenfold. "I had him and I let him get away." He imagines himself slicing the man across the throat, blood from the severed jugular spraying over him.

"What happened?" says Porthos.

"He knew the explosion was coming and was ready to make his escape." Athos can taste that blood, metallic on his tongue. "He's closing in on us."

"Not for long," says Treville, his eyes livid. "It's time for us to turn the tables on M Vallion. Paris is _our_ city: if he's still here then we'll sniff him out and strike first. Use every contact available: clergy, criminals. I don't care who we have to threaten to get the information, but we'll damn well find him before he hurts anyone else."

As tiredness overwhelms them the mood grows ever more sombre. Aramis and Porthos depart for some much needed rest and Athos returns to his look out position at the window.

"I've filled a fresh bath for you, Athos," says Constance from the doorway. "I won't have you sleeping between my sheets looking as if you've crawled out from the hearth."

"Treville will have the bed tonight," says Athos in a monotone. "He needs it more than I."

"Not the point," says Constance. "I've gone to the trouble so at least be civil and make use of it."

Somehow, at her most bossy, she always manages to raise Athos's spirits. "Yes, Madame,” says. “Right away, Madame."

"And less of the cheek or I'll cuff you round the ear," she adds, squeezing his hand as he passes rather than inflicting punishment.

"You do know I'm at least ten years your senior," he says in wry amusement.

"Well try and act like it."

One day he'll get the last word, but that time has not yet arrived and, conceding defeat, he takes the stairs two at a time and strips off his grimy clothes. The bath water is hellish hot, but a joy to soak in, and with his injuries fully healed he can finally enjoy its restorative powers. If only Vallion would leave him alone for a minute or two to relax.

When he returns to his room, dressed only in small clothes, Treville is sitting up in bed, demolishing hunks of fresh bread and cheese from a well laden tray.

"Your landlady spoils us," he says, pouring Athos a cup of wine.

"She does indeed," agrees Athos, "but she worries too much; I must find new accommodation soon." He will regret leaving this place, but he will not have Constance wringing her hands with fear every time he's late to the dinner table. She will, no doubt, find an alternative lodger to fret over soon enough.

Treville nods. He understands a soldier's need for detachment. This is why they don't marry during service and often live like pack animals at the barracks. "I suppose I’ll also need rooms while we're rebuilding." He offers Athos a plate of food. "Eat up, lad."

Athos picks at the meal but his mind is not on it. Instead he harks back to Vallion's cruel words and is filled with despair. However much he wishes to kill the bastard he replays his moment of panicked hesitation and wonders if next time they meet each other he will actually run away. Out of the blue he's awash with emotion, all of it ugly and hard.

Treville pats the bed next to him. "Come sit with me."

Athos does as he's bid, though his eyes still remain fixed on the window. Taking a long draught of wine he replaces the cup on the tray and leans into Treville's touch.

"Where have you gone?"

The question confuses Athos and he turns to look askance at the captain.

"You're here, but you may as well not be." Treville takes possession of his hand.

"I thought you were dead."

"But you know now I’m alive so that's not the reason for your reticence.” His voice is low and tender. “Did Vallion...?"

Athos shakes his head and tries to think of a way to explain that doesn't make him seem so _weak_ , but there is none. "I'm afraid of him," he says honestly.

"As you have every reason to be."

"I know we have to confront him, but I don't think I can."

"Do you want my opinion?" says Treville.

"Always."

"Then, you can and you _must_ do it," says Treville. "For the sake of closure." He raises Athos's hand to his lips and kisses the taut skin across the knuckles. "Know that I will keep you out of harm's way."

Athos may agree with Treville and he may trust him with his life and, but that doesn't make this any easier to bear. He shivers from apprehension as he imagines what it would be like to be, once again, in the presence of all the men who raped him. 

"You're cold. Lie with me," says Treville. "We both need some rest."

"You're hurt."

"Hardly at all. Now come here." 

Treville pulls him in and, unable to resist the draw of the man, Athos stretches out along the length of the bed, careful not to cause discomfort. "I thought you were dead," he says again and searching Treville's face he presses a firm, chaste kiss to his mouth before turning away quickly.

"I'm here." Treville folds an arm around Athos, keeping him safe, back pressed against chest, and providing Athos with the comfort he's been needing for months. Years perhaps.

 

\---

 

Treville has taken up temporary residence in ground floor rooms on the Rue Allent, a narrow, rather squalid street that's only advantage lies in the fact that it's a stone's throw away from the garrison.

"Serviceable, I suppose," says Athos, seating himself in familiar fashion on the corner of Treville's desk. The piece of furniture has been damaged in the move and tips awkwardly allowing the papers to fly off in all directions. Treville hurriedly bends down to collect them and Athos kneels to assist, but there's something in the captain's rushed manner which causes Athos to look more carefully at the listed orders and bills of receipt than perhaps he would have done ordinarily.

A small unfurled scroll stands out from the everyday nature of the rest and Athos pinches it from between Treville's fingers, the crude drawing of an arquebus catching his attention. Opening it fully he reads the words: _you're dead_ , scrawled in inked lettering beneath the gun.

"This was delivered here?" He waves the message under Treville's nose.

Both men stand, shoulders set in confrontation and Treville nods. "Yesterday. I haven't had time to deal with it yet."

"And yet you didn't consider it important enough to tell me." Athos is furious. "Is this the first death threat you've received from Vallion?"

Treville nods again and Athos continues to tell him off. "Did you think to mention it to Aramis or Porthos this morning before you sent them off on another wild goose chase?"

"You're acting above your station." Treville fronts up to him. "What I choose to do with my company of men is none of your business. You're here to carry out my orders without question."

What happens next is entirely unexpected. A touchpaper of a different kind is lit and the two men slam into each other, mouths open, teeth clashing in a biting kiss that turns out to be ferociously hard. Drawing back for a moment Athos studies Treville's face for any second thoughts then searches himself for the same. There are none and he kisses Treville again, softer this time, his tongue sliding into the man's mouth, his breath coming in rapid bursts as blood thunders inside.

It's no more than a few strides to Treville's bed chamber and, hard and wanting for the first time since he was assaulted, Athos is filled with the kind of physical desperation he's never experienced before. The sound of familiar voices as a group of Musketeers pass by the open window brings about a return to reason and, startled by events, the two men pull apart. 

"We'll sort this out later," promises Treville, his hand reaching up for the briefest of moments to touch Athos's cheek.

 

\---

 

Later, by dint of its character, never arrives as Aramis and Porthos return that afternoon with news that Vallion and his diminishing squad of men have taken over a warehouse in Le Havre, two days ride away.

"We even have plans of the building," says Porthos, pleased as punch as he lays out the drawings on Treville's desk and weighs them down with a brass inkstand and an ugly paper knife. "An old sea captain friend of mine has come up trumps."

Athos has a strong suspicion that the captain may be more of a buccaneer than a merchant navy man, but at least he won't be following an ideology like these blasted Calvinists.

Their assault on Vallion's bolt hole is detailed down to precise minutiae and all four men are filled with frustrated rage when they eventually arrive, with a troop of soldiers, at the wharf building in Le Havre to discover not a shred of evidence that Vallion has even set foot in there.

"I'll string that miserable bastard up from the mizzen mast of his ship when I see him next." Porthos mounts his horse ready for the long ride back home, disgruntled and disappointed that all their efforts have, once again, been in vain.

They break their journey at a shabby coaching inn on the main route to Paris. The hostelry is bursting at the seams with travellers, most of them farmers heading to the monthly market at Les Halles, and with only one basic room left spare the four men lay out their bedrolls on the floor and share a scanty meal.

“What next?” asks Aramis, taking an unusually large swig of wine from the bottle. “He’s outsmarting us at every turn.”

"He's cunning and he's twisted and he's out for vengeance," says Treville, his lips thinning into a grim line. "He's also enjoying leading us a cat and mouse chase."

"Who's the cat and who's the mouse?" says Aramis despondently.

"Don't think that way," snaps Treville. "What will that sort of negativity ever achieve?"

"So far he's beaten Athos to within an inch of his life, destroyed our barracks and had us running in frantic circles around France. How are we supposed to gain anything positive from this?" answers Aramis wearily.

The remainder of the food is eaten in silence. Probably a good thing, thinks Athos as they're too close to accusing each other of things that would be of much regret when viewed by the harsh light of day. He himself is resigned, slowly gaining an insight into the workings of Vallion's mind. Calculating and cruel the man is manipulating them with ease: divide and conquer being his current methodology.

One by one the candles gutter and fail and as the room is enveloped in darkness Athos listens to an expanding chorus of snores. Comforted by the close proximity of his friends he is at the same time anxious that he might disturb them and, having rejected the idea of sleep, he lies on his back, waiting for morning to arrive. To pass the time he contemplates Vallion and his future plans, trying his level best not to relive that kiss he shared with Treville which has been on his mind--the impression of it warm on his lips--ever since it happened.

Rest--or in Athos’s case, none--does little to raise their spirits and the final leg of the journey to Paris continues in silence and at haste.

The four men stable their horses at the livery yard they’ve been using since the fire and, exhausted and downhearted they split up, Treville off to the garrison to see how the carpenters are doing, with Aramis and Porthos sloping off to lick their wounds and probably bed each other into a better mood. 

Athos, himself, is happy to return to the quiet comfort of the Bonacieux household and consider Vallion's next play. He can still feel eyes on him at all times and is almost certain it's not paranoia.

The instant she sees him appear in the kitchen Constance pours out wine for them both. "How was the day?" she asks, passing him a cup and then dishing up a plate of broth from the pot.

"A pointless exercise for us," Athos says wearily. "Less so for our opponent."

"I thought Porthos was certain of his information?"

"All we can be certain of is that Vallion is well funded from some quarter and can pay well to put into the rumour mill whatever he wishes us to take out of it." Athos sighs. If the King were more popular amongst his people then the Musketeers would have an easier time. Huguenot families who, decades since, were forced to flee France for other corners of the continent will happily be providing the coin. They don't give a damn about the less than savoury methods that Vallion employs.

"What in Heaven's name?" Constance jumps to her feet, fingers closing around the bone handle of a knife at the sound of the door being smashed to smithereens. 

In contrast, Athos doesn't bat an eyelid. "Tell Treville that I've been expecting this and to plan things out accordingly,” he says quickly. “Tell him also the number of men here. It won't be all of them, but will at least give him something to work with." 

Wood splinters into shards and the room is filled with thugs, masked once again with bandanas. The lack of surprise doesn't stem that surge of fear as Athos is seized, pinned to the table and disarmed.

"Don't worry," he says, fixing his eyes on Constance to calm her as Vallion approaches, kerchief bunched at his throat. She's spitting with rage and the last thing he wants is for her to put herself in harm's way for his sake. The carving knife is torn from her hand and she’s pushed backwards into a chair then restrained by one of the men.

"Wrong," crows Vallion, his arm casually braced around Athos's neck. "Worry is indeed what you should be doing, my little bird, but only after you've run along to Captain Treville to tell him that, once again, we have his pet Musketeer." He strokes his fingers through Athos's hair. "He really should look after him better." 

Fingertips slide down his neck, greasing a slimy trail over him, but however disgusted he feels Athos will not show anything other than indifference. When he’s hauled to his feet with two men securing him and Vallion draped against his back he continues to keep his eyes on Constance to reassure her that all is not lost. This is how he expected things to progress. So far so good.

"We'll be taking him to l'eglise St Martin," continues Vallion as they leave and Athos is dragged with them. "Go now, pretty thing. Inform the captain."

Thrown unceremoniously into the back of a covered wagon Athos automatically examines every escape route possible, but Vallion is at his side all the way, dagger digging into whichever body part he fancies threatening at the time and, anyway, Athos needs to be on the inside for his long shot of a plan to work out.

"I would make you suck my cock, but I have no wish to be castrated by those sharp little teeth of yours," Vallion says in that bizarre manner which sends Athos's stomach crawling upwards into his throat. "It took Besnard a long time to recover after you chomped down on him. I do so admire your spirit." The dagger trails lazily down Athos's doublet and breeches then traces the lie of his prick.

Damping down his emotions Athos concentrates instead on the route they're taking out of Paris, calculating where this particular church could be and why Vallion has chosen it as a venue. The name is unfamiliar; Treville has been over and over their history trying to predetermine Vallion's moves and motives and St Martin has never been mentioned.

"You're quiet, Musketeer, disappointingly so in fact," croons Vallion. "I could fuck you bloody and make you scream right here." Athos tenses. "But that would only spoil the show for later."


	2. Chapter 2

The place that they're approaching is a small church set within walled grounds in the northern outskirts of the city. Attached to it is a single storey monastic building from within which is emanating the kind of dreadful cacophony that cannot possibly be human in origin.

"You seem disturbed, Musketeer," says Vallion with a chuckle. "An appropriate reaction because this is indeed a refuge for those who are disturbed beyond reason."

A suitable place for Vallion then, thinks Athos wryly as a set of manacles are secured to his wrists. He's dragged from the cart, falling to the ground, and whilst he's being hefted brutally to his feet by two of the men he looks about him and wonders at Vallion's diminishing state of mind. What made him choose such an impossible site to defend? If he thinks a few screeching lunatics will deter the Musketeers then he's a very misguided man.

Inside the building Athos is shoved along arched, stone corridors and past monastic cells, inside which huddle a number of nuns in grey habit. They look frightened but unharmed. He hopes with all his heart that they will remain that way, but their captor is not known for his sympathetic nature.

"The Daughters of Charity see fit to look after the mad men of Paris." Vallion shakes his head. "A worthless cause if you ask me."

"A more worthless one comes to mind," says Athos, inwardly cursing himself. He must not infuriate Vallion too soon or his friends will be rescuing a raped corpse.

"Brave words from a brave soldier," sneers Vallion as he pushes Athos down a short flight of steps and turns the key in the lock of an iron gate. "Let's see how much you enjoy the remainder of your evening spent in here with these fellows."

The stench coming from behind the bars is revolting and Athos almost brings up his dinner as he is forced inside the cellar room with these poor wretches. The compacted mud floor is scattered with foul smelling straw and the men contained here are naked and chained to the wall. Athos curses under his breath; if this is the humane way to treat the lunatics of France then he dreads to think of the alternative.

Locked away Athos keeps to the far corner, as near to the slit of a window as he can manage. At least here he can keep an eye out and also have the blessing of some fresh air to breathe. Frightened beyond belief he calms himself with the idea of rescue and for a moment imagines he hears the distinctive whinny of Porthos's horse. Too soon, he knows for certain, but come they will and he must be ready for it when they do.

Excited by the presence of an intruder within their cell the inmates begin to scream and haul on their chains, but Athos ignores them, intent on working free a set of lock picks he has secreted in the lining of his doublet. He's been preparing for this.

At first he has no success, managing to drop the tools more times than he can successfully manage to hold them between his teeth and tease them into the keyhole. Eventually, however, he remembers his lessons from Porthos--there are ways to overcome the boredom when one is bed bound--and manipulates the workings of the simple lock until it opens with a soft clunk. A thin smile of satisfaction on his face he removes a length of wire from his boot and twists it ready, then replacing the chains loosely over his wrists he watches and waits.

Besnard is the first to die. Coming to the cell on the pretext of bringing water he crouches close to Athos and looks him over with a gloating smile. "When this is over and you're no longer needed as bait, then I'll slice off your cock at the root and let you know the pain I suffered at your hands."

"I'm sorry," says Athos politely. "I had no idea I actually emasculated you that day."

"No! No you didn't," the man says, eyes widening at the implication. "I still have my-"

Besnard is not expecting Athos to move so swiftly, nor to be enmeshed in a noose of wire that tightens until he is firmly garotted and the life squeezes out of him. Taking possession of keys and pistol Athos hides the body under a heap of straw. Normally he regrets his killings; this time he only hopes that his friends will reach here before the decaying corpse adds to the smell.

With an arm looped through the bars he secures the cell door, leaving the keys in the lock. He then waits, hoping against hope that rescue will arrive soon, but detects no sounds from the outside of the building. Worse still, his plan of picking off the men one by one is a failure when four of them arrive at once to take him to Vallion. If they strip him all will be lost. If they gang rape him he will not recover this time.

"How did these come undone?" says one of them as the chains slip free from Athos's wrists. 

The response to this question comes in the form of a lead shot to the eye. At this short range the man's head explodes like a melon and his associates, standing immediately behind him, are covered in a liquefied mix of brain matter and splintered skull. One of them falls backward in disgust, by chance uncovering the greying corpse of Besnard in the process, and the frenzied excitement from the inmates only adds to the horror of the moment. 

Needless to say, the three remaining men are not kind to Athos as he is hauled back along the corridors. Looking to see that the nuns are still unharmed he catches sight of Aramis in one of the cells and heaves out a stuttering breath of relief. Head swimming from the onslaught of punches and kicks, he fights to retain his focus knowing that this time he is not alone.

Fury is written all over Aramis's face and he is about to rush in to help when Athos throws him a warning glance. However unnerved he is, however broken and beaten it doesn't matter, because getting the Daughters of Charity to safety is vital. They are good women who don’t deserve to be pawns in Vallion's game. There is time for him, Athos knows. He is, as Besnard so nicely put it, merely bait in a trap for Treville.

Dragged through the building and into the church Athos is thrown at Vallion's feet -- a bloody offering. He’s aching and bruised from the treatment he’s received, but he won't go down without a fight. Not alone, he reminds himself.

"We should kill him now," says one of the gore splattered men. "De Blois is dead, as is Besnard, both by his filthy, catholic hands." 

Vallion ignores them and squats to examine Athos, wiping away the trail of blood from his nose with the pad of a thumb. In a disturbing gesture he sucks it clean with a look of utter relish on his face. "You _are_ a feisty one; I can see why Treville likes you so much. Now up you get," he says in that sing-song voice, helping Athos to his feet then shoving him face down across the upper surface of a carved tomb, cheekbone crunching against cold, stone features. "Tie him here," he says pointing to coils of rope and the iron rings that are set into the slab floor. "I was going to crucify him for the sake of theatre, but this allows easier access." He slaps Athos across the backside. "A spectacle of a different sort."

The sound of a gunshot has the henchmen looking about them with nervous eyes, but Vallion is in a very different state of mind. "Finish restraining him then hunt down our former captain and escort him inside," he says with an unhinged laugh.

For a man who, up until now, has been playing such a clever game, Athos wonders why Vallion now seems to have thrown caution to the wind, his sanity, once hanging by a thread, now seemingly departed for good. From outside the church he picks out the subtle sound of a blade and gurgle of a slit throat and allows himself a half smile.

So far his own game has been a high risk one with odds lengthening by the hour, but now, still in one piece if a little roughed up, he's in a better position than he expected to be. Easing the small blade out of its hiding place in the lining of his cuff, he begins to work away at the ropes, stripping through the strands of hemp with tiny measured movements as Vallion is occupied by a new arrival to the scene.

"Give up, Vallion," says Treville, stepping forward into the aisle. "There are, at present, three guns aimed at you from inside the church and more on their way."

"Three?" sneers Vallion. "And how many, do you suppose, are pointing at you?"

"You had eleven men left in total and we've disarmed ten of them," says Aramis from the shadows.

"One way or another," adds an unmistakable growl. "The last scarpered as soon as he set eyes on me."

Athos’s lips twist into a smile of satisfaction because Porthos, at his most menacing, is a wonder to behold. He can turn a twenty stone killer into a blubbering wreck, just from the tone of his voice.

"No matter, Treville. I have you where I want you,” says Vallion, all the time his pistol aimed surely at Athos. “You betrayed me. Your words are empty. Your promises of loyalty and protection are meaningless." Vallion's gun wavers, but only for a split second. It's not long enough. "I trusted you."

"How could I do anything but hand you over to the authorities?" Momentarily Treville's voice is tinged with regret, but it swiftly turns to anger. "You played me for a fool. Helping me track down those killers when all the time it was you, you sick bastard." He pauses to collect himself. "Even now I'll let you walk away from this alive, Vallion. Even after all that you've done."

Athos tenses; Treville might have mercy in mind, but he has not. He's spent too long imagining the hot, slippery feel of blood on his hands. 

"And live out the rest of my days covered in my own filth in the bowels of the Bastille?" The pitch of Vallion's voice rises. "I think not, Captain. You may have saved the Daughters of Charity from rape and burning, but I can assure you that neither he"--his pistol is inches away from Athos's temple--"nor I will, _walk away from this alive_."

Beneath the depraved layers there's an underlying effeminacy to Vallion and Athos has long since doubted that religious suppression plays anything but a minor part in this. The man is a twisted product of self hatred for his own predilections and he strongly suspects that Vallion suffered at the hands of a catholic order, trying to cure him of unnatural desires. "I'll wager you personally never raped any of the nuns you captured," he says and when Vallion hisses at him it's the most inhuman sound Athos has ever heard, including those of his former roommates. It doesn't deter him. He needs to rile Vallion, needs him close. "I imagine the only time you _can_ get a stand for a woman is if she has a prick hidden away under her skirts." Hand now freed from the ropes he reaches carefully into his boot.

"Athos! Quiet!" snaps Treville, watching in trepidation as Vallion slowly circles the stone tomb over which Athos has been spread out and secured, the gun brushing his temple and lingering there. "Vallion, your quarrel is with me alone. What has he got to do with any of this? He wasn't even a Musketeer when you were in the company."

"All of Paris knows you look on him with favour."

"Of course I look on him with favour. He's a damn good soldier. He's my second in command."

"And still you fool yourself."

"Let him go." Treville’s words are slow and steady.

"Why would I do that when he's so much fun to play with?" Vallion leans closer to Athos and strokes his face with the barrel of the pistol. "The captain always has his favourites, lad. You're not the first by a long way." He turns his attention back to Treville. "No, I'd much rather fuck him again and watch your face as I'm doing it. He was tight as a vise last time, but I'll bet fifty livres he's a lot slacker now after we all had a go with him."

For a moment Athos loses his way; shrunken, wretched, sick with shame he can’t bear to think of Porthos and Aramis hidden amongst the shadows, revulsion on their faces as they finally hear the truth. How will they ever look at him again with any kind of respect? He leans into the cold rim of the pistol barrel and, as he has done so many times in the past, longs for death. Imagines himself swinging from the bough of that lone hanging tree at La Fère.

Treville, unable to retain any measure of calm, roars with rage as Vallion drapes himself over Athos in a parody of a loving pose. It’s the moment Athos has been waiting for and is enough to bring him back from the edge of despair. With hands and feet now loose from the ropes he whips around, jabbing his elbow into Vallion's throat, at the same time bringing his knee up to make contact with delicate tissue and sliding the fine blade of a stiletto cleanly between Vallion's ribs. The pistol clatters away and Treville lunges forward to retrieve it.

Vallion leans back against the carved side of the tomb, a line of pink spittle running from the corner of his mouth. He coughs and the colour changes to crimson. "Captain," he says, an exhalation of blood accompanying his words as he slides to the floor. "Your pet had more fight left in him than I expected."

"He's a good soldier," Treville says again, handing Athos the pistol as Aramis and Porthos approach from the outer reaches of the church, all of them closing ranks. "One of my best men. _Not_ my pet."

Athos leans in close to Vallion. "I'm Athos of the King's Musketeers and these gentlemen are my brothers in arms and my friends." He lowers his voice to a whisper meant for one man's ears alone. "I could follow Treville's example and show mercy, or I could slowly fuck you to death with the barrel of this gun, but seeing as you're dying I'll be kind and hasten the process."

Stepping back a pace he aims the flintlock at Vallion's heart and fires, tissue and fluid exploding outwards in an expiration of droplets as the man exhales a final, bloody breath. 

Looking down at the crumpled body Athos feels nothing but weariness. Perhaps, once he's recuperated, he'll gain a measure of relief that Vallion and his companions are dead, but for now all he wants is to go home and sleep.

Hands clamp tight around his shoulders. "Did he harm you?" says Treville, facing him, his eyes fastened to Athos as he hunts for the truth.

Athos shakes his head. "No."

"Why didn't you tell us your plans? It would have made things a damn sight easier."

Treville's lips are drawn into that thin, angry line that Athos knows only too well. He can feel the thrum of nervous tension and knows the captain is a hair's breadth away from shaking him senseless, or perhaps something more revealing. Too close for either of their comfort Treville stumbles backward, coming to rest against the tomb.

Athos's hackles rise. "How would it have made things easier? I had nothing but suspicions and therefore nothing to tell." 

Treville hadn't trusted them with knowledge of the death threats he'd received, which were, in contrast, _absolute_ proof of Vallion's intent, and the weight of this injustice causes Athos to slump into himself. Immediately he's surrounded on both sides, weight of a different kind bearing down on him, holding him up, making him compact and safe and as far from rejected as he could ever dare hope.

"Leave it, Captain," says Aramis, pressing a flask of brandy into Athos's hand. "I could have safely made that kill-shot, by the way. A thousand times over."

"And if you’d missed?" says Treville. He stares bleakly at Athos who remains safely ensconced within the boundaries of Aramis and Porthos and his complexion pales. "What then?"

"I never miss," says Aramis coolly. It’s nothing but the truth.

"No need to talk of such things now," says Porthos, his hand squeezing tightly around Athos's waist. "For the first time in months all is well, my friends, and we can rest easy. Let's not spoil the moment with quarrelling."

 

\---

 

There is much to be done before they can leave St Martin--bodies must be disposed of and buildings scrubbed clean of blood--but with a dozen Musketeers now here to help with the clear up it doesn't take long. 

Once all is put to right the nuns, reassured that they are now safe, return to look after their charges the only way they know how. At times, during his three decades on earth, Athos has felt a distinct loss of grip on reality, but his experiences here give him a new found appreciation of sanity and a definite desire to cling on to it at all costs.

When work is completed and dusk has fallen, it's finally time to return home. Treville mounts up and offers Athos a hand. He takes it gladly and comes to rest behind the captain, an arm circled loosely about his waist. There are spare horses in the grounds, but Athos is bone tired and shattered enough after today's events that he needs the comfort of human contact.

Following Aramis and Porthos along the road that leads into the heart of Paris they complete the journey in silence. Athos is lost to his thoughts and taken by surprise when they cross Pont Neuf and arrive at the livery yard so soon, hooves clattering across the cobbles as they hand the horses over to the grooms to stable.

"Not up for a night of drinking then?" says Porthos, smiling affectionately as Athos's eyes shutter with exhaustion.

"Maybe tomorrow," he replies with a weary smile. "Thank you, my friends. For everything." He's blinded by a sting of salt as Aramis and Porthos surround him once again, enfolding him into a protective huddle. The truth has apparently not put them off him as he was certain it would, but he is still ashamed of himself.

"Will you come back to my rooms?" says Treville, once the other two men have taken their leave. "You have wounds that may need tending to and we have things to discuss."

Athos shakes his head. "Not this evening, Captain. I'm suffering from no more than aches and pains and I need to let Mme Bonacieux know that I am well." Besides which something is bothering him, tugging at the back of his mind as it claws its way to the surface. If he could just get a little sleep then maybe he could make sense of things.

"Good night then," says Treville stiffly as they leave the yard, heading in different directions along the street.

Every step is a marathon and Athos is disproportionately relieved when he reaches the Bonacieux house, opening the newly mended door and entering the premises with heavy tread.

"Athos!" Constance rushes to greet him, wiping her hands on her apron. "You're well?" she asks with an appraising look.

"I'm fine and justice has been served," says Athos in as cheerful a manner as he can muster. "All I need now is a year's worth of sleep and the world will be set to right."

"Some food first?" says Constance.

"M Athos requires rest alone," says Bonacieux from his favourite fireside chair. "Did you not hear him?"

Normally the man's abrupt manner towards his wife is a matter of the utmost irritation to Athos, but tonight he is grateful for it and grabs the opportunity to slope off to bed. 

A bottle or two of wine sends him into a dreamless sleep and he wakes, rested but thick-headed, still fully clothed in his uniform. The usual medicine of a bucket of cold water revives him enough to feel almost human and after a splashdown wash and a change of underthings he makes his way, with determined spirit, to that insalubrious boarding house in Rue Allent.

Treville is already seated at his desk in the outer chamber, reading through the day's orders from Cardinal Richelieu and when Athos approaches he glances up, a look of wary pleasure in his eyes. "You seem rested." 

"I feel better," says Athos.

Immediately the captain gets to his feet, pushing the shutters closed as he passes by. Examining Athos's bruised cheekbone for sign of breakage he then inspects the rest of him carefully, relief evident on his face when he sees no obvious damage. With fingers threaded into his hair he draws him in until they're near enough each other to be sharing breath.

Athos wants this; the hammering of his heart tells him so, as does the steady pump of blood that causes him to fill with excitement. He wants this so much. For weeks he's thought of nothing but the feel of Treville’s body against his, flushing away all the pain and hurt and impurities that lurk inside him. So why can't he overlook this one thing?

"What is it?" asks Treville in consternation as Athos backs off; it’s just a half step, but it could be a league for all the difference it makes.

"Tell me honestly, Captain, did you sleep with Vallion?" says Athos. Is it betrayal of a different kind that fueled the man's desperate desire for vengeance?

Treville's eyes widen in shock. "No, of course I didn't,” he answers. “Although, with the benefit of hindsight, I believe he may have wanted me to." He reaches out to Athos, resting a palm on his shoulder. "Vallion was my lieutenant and, at the time, I trusted him almost as much as I trust you, but being captain of this regiment is a responsibility which I do not take lightly. I _have_ never and thought for certain I _would_ never take advantage of one of my men, but Athos, you are dear to me in such a way I cannot ignore my feelings."

"As you are to me," breathes Athos.

Words are words and, as lovely as they are to hear, they cannot replace actions. The gap between them is bridged with a kiss that’s hard and biting then soft and searching and alternates with such frequency that Athos grows dizzy with need. Worrying at the fastenings of Treville's damn tunic he groans in frustration, desperate to feel skin against skin.

"Bed," says Treville, slamming and locking the outer door then leading Athos through into his private chamber which is also blessed with a window that opens onto the street. Closing the shutters he undresses down to breeches and shirt, turning then to Athos and carefully undoing his doublet with fingers that tremble slightly, betraying his urgency. "Tell me what will be safe for you," he says.

The care taken with him melts away any residual fears Athos may have had. “Anything. Everything,” he says honestly.

They kiss again, tongue sliding soft against tongue in a never ending dance, and when Treville's beard begins to chafe, burning hot against his skin, it only serves to excite Athos more. Grabbing at the linen undershirt he bunches it in his hands and then slides his fingers upwards to touch the skin beneath. Gasping with need he licks kisses onto Treville's neck and along his collarbone, biting softly into the muscled shoulder until this causes a roar of excitement and he is swiftly rolled onto his back.

"I'm sorry," says Treville, his voice wound tight from want, his fingers wandering restlessly over the buttons of Athos's breeches.

"Don't be." Athos looks up at him, vulnerable and open. "I trust you."

Hitching in a breath Treville undresses Athos fully until he is spread naked on the narrow bed. Carefully he kisses each bruise, running the tip of his tongue around the abraded skin and tracking lower until he licks a wet path along Athos's hipbone, coming to rest a fraction of an inch away from Athos's cock which is slick with pleasure.

"Can I put my mouth on you?" Treville asks, once again handing over control.

Athos arches up from the bed, flooded with ever increasing desire. "Please," he begs, his body a hot mess of need. He'll not last, not like this. Not when Treville takes him between his lips and sucks him with such intensity. "I can't," he moans helplessly, his fingers biting deep into Treville's skin. "I can't."

Treville looks up for a moment, his eyes dark and clouded with lust. "Let it go," he says. "We've all the time in the world." He dips down again, fastening his mouth and fingers around Athos's cock then licking, stroking, sucking him until he's crying out and coming with something close to a sob. It's been so long.

Athos is falling, never hitting the ground, floating on a cloud of blissed out happiness. When finally he regains his senses and remembers he's not alone he turns to Treville and undresses him, lavishing each newly exposed part with the attention it's due. Face to face they lie together, Athos's hand gripped around Treville's cock, watching every change of expression as the man grows ever closer to orgasm. 

Biting into his lower lip Treville's eyes widen and, gasping out his need, he spends hot over Athos's fingers and his own belly. "I've truly taken advantage of you now," he says, pulling a face as Athos wipes away the mess using the sheets as a cloth. "A line has been crossed."

"I'm hoping it’ll be crossed many times over," says Athos, licking his way along Treville's jaw until he reaches his lips where he dives in for a kiss. It's good tasting himself on Treville's tongue and the flavour ignites a fire in him. He hopes they'll have enough time this morning for more exploration as he has a fancy to suck Treville off until he comes in his mouth.

"What are you thinking about?" asks Treville, chucking him under the chin with a crooked finger. "Not brooding I hope?"

"Actually, I’m wondering what you taste like," says Athos with a grin and it feels awkward on his face, overstretched and underused.

"I haven't seen that smile before," says Treville, reaching out to trace the curved outline of his lips with the tip of a finger. "It's lovely." He kisses Athos again and again then folds him into his arms and kisses him some more. 

"Enough or everyone in the regiment will know what we've been up to from the stubble burn alone." Athos smirks then rests his head on Treville's shoulder, finally ready to voice that innermost fear which has been plaguing him relentlessly. "Do you see me as anything less than I was?"

"No." Treville's fingers glide possessively over Athos's belly. "As something much more, if that's at all possible."

"Because of what happened, I mean."

Treville sighs. "Because of what happened _when_ precisely? In bed just now? At St Martin?"

"You know when." Athos feels no different from that sullen youth who'd forever been a disappointment to his parents. If they were alive today they’d be more disappointed than ever to discover that he’s just bedded a man.

"Athos, if I could turn back the clock and stop that day from happening I would, but as that's impossible all you can do is learn to live with it." Treville brushes the hair away from Athos's forehead. "Please believe me when I say that no one will ever judge you over such a matter."

"Aramis and Porthos know," continues Athos in a monotone, reality and its consequences striking him hard from out of the blue.

"They always did," says Treville gently. "A part of the story at least. You can't hope to hide something so dreadful from those that love you. You can only pretend to yourself that it’s hidden." He brushes his mouth softly over Athos's lips. "Just be prepared for us to look after you a little more than we would have done in the past. For a while at least."

"I'm not certain I like that idea," says Athos, his mood brightening in contrast to his words.

"You'll cope." Curving up against him Treville closes his eyes, fast asleep within minutes, and Athos soon follows him there, as content as he could ever hope to be with his current lot in life.

 

\---

 

That evening he meets up with Porthos and Aramis for a night’s drinking at the alehouse. It’s good to be with them, a comfort as always, and as he watches Porthos play a fifth ace from up his sleeve he leans over his shoulder, lips close to the man’s ear. “Don’t think I’ll defend you if they catch you out,” he murmurs.

“Of course you will.” Porthos grins then angles his head back and plants a kiss on Athos’s cheek. 

A tinge of a flush warms his face, the knowledge that he’s worthy to be their friend reinforced once again. Of course he would defend Porthos, with his life if necessary. As he would Aramis and Treville.

Aramis approaches, a little worse for wear, and sits next to Athos, the legs of the chair skidding across the flagstone floor. “Is he causing trouble?” he says in an undertone.

“Does that really warrant an answer?” Athos smirks, or perhaps he grins. Whatever happens his elbows slide on the table and he crumples into a heap.

Aramis rights him then collapses forward himself until their foreheads touch. "Am I going to have to carry you home?" he says with a slur to his words.

"Am I you?" replies Athos. He's muzzy headed and content from wine, good company and love for all men. Three men. One in particular

"Porthos," calls Aramis loudly, although he is no more than a foot away from them at the gaming table. "You'll have to carry us home."

"Nothing new there then." Porthos looks around at the drunken pair and then stands up. "It's been a pleasure, gentlemen," he says to his fellow card players and from the disgruntled look on their faces Athos has a feeling that it isn't mutual.

They wend their way through Paris with Porthos in between them acting as a central prop. It's the same as it's always been, with one exception; Treville is now lurking at the door of Athos’s lodgings, waiting to see him safely to bed.

As they're about to part for the night Aramis collides against Athos with a bump, arms winding about his neck. "The captain is a good man. And a lucky one."

For the second time that night Athos receives a solid kiss on the cheek, nothing courtly or elegant, just an honest show of affection. He's the lucky one, in so many ways. More wealthy now than he'd ever been in his previous life.

"He's been into his cups, Sir," says Porthos, a hint of guilt to his words.

"No more than I expected," says Treville with a resigned smile. "You get Aramis home; I'll take care of this idiot."

They climb the stairs in stumbling fashion and, once in his room, Athos undresses to his small clothes and flops back on the bed. "Fuck me," he says to all three of the captains as the world begins to spin.

"Hush," says Treville with a finger to his lips.

Athos nods gravely. Sodomy is a capital offence after all. "Sleep with me then," he says, his arms outstretched and, having stripped himself of weapons, boots and tunic, Treville obliges.

 

\--- 

 

Mme Bonacieux is not best pleased when Athos informs her that he's taken new lodgings. In fact she's downright furious, her hands on her hips, elbows jutting angrily as she glares at him from across the kitchen. "I thought you were happy here?"

"I am, Constance. You've been a blessing to me." Athos approaches, soothing her with a kiss to the top of her head as he takes her hands in his. "But you worry too much about my welfare and that's no good for either of us."

"I'll only fret more when I _don't_ know what trouble you're getting yourself into."

"Not true at all. Once I'm gone you can rest easy." Athos will miss her dreadfully but this must be done. "We'll be better friends than ever, I promise, and I'll continue to pay board until you find another lodger to fuss over."

"It's not about the money," she says, her pretty face drawn into a frown.

"But it _will_ help," teases Athos, squeezing her hands a final time then releasing her from his hold.

"It will a little," she admits with a laugh. "Now be off with you, you rotten man and tell that captain of yours to look after you well or he'll have me to answer to."

 

\---

 

The rooms in Rue Fèrou are more private than Treville's, being on the first floor of the house, but are small and austere with little of worth to furnish them.

"Damn this ridiculous sized bed," grumbles Treville, tossing and turning in the summer heat. "Couldn't you have found somewhere more pleasant to rent?"

"On a Musketeer's income?" Athos quirks an eyebrow. "I think not."

The captain's lodgings continue to be the most unsuitable place in which to conduct an illicit love affair, the two of them forever being interrupted in the throes of passion by a visit from Musketeers, or a summons from King or Cardinal. The garrison rebuild is now finished, but the one attempt they had at a secret tryst in Treville's quarters proved to be so fraught with danger--the rowdy sounds of the barracks echoing up from below--that neither of them would dare try anything more than a few kisses and a hurried fumble against the wall.

"May I steal you away from Paris for a day or two?" asks Athos. Treville is right: the bed is too small, the heat is unbearable and the stench of the city is foul to say the least. Athos longs for somewhere cool and quiet to rest his head and knows this is the best chance they have to escape with the King and Queen away in Austria with a troop of guards and the Cardinal tied up with Papal business. "You could declare it block leave?" he suggests hopefully.

"It's a possibility," says Treville and as Athos moves down in the bed kissing a languid, wet trail over his body he sighs with delight. "I'll do it. I'll write the order."

Athos takes Treville's cock into his mouth as reward for both of them, swirling his tongue around the crown then suckling at him with delight. He would do this always, be on his knees before his captain, honouring him with every lick, every suck, every press of his lips. His own cock in hand he strokes himself with a tight fist, bringing Treville off first, swallowing him by the mouthful, then kneeling up, his body arched gracefully as he works himself to a slow climax and comes in arcing streaks across Treville's belly.

"I love watching you do that," says Treville, falling spent on the bed with Athos sticky in his arms. "It's damn near as good as my own pleasure." He kisses him on the forehead and smiles. "Where do you plan on taking me?" 

Loaded with intent it might be, but the question is a real one. "I know of somewhere not far from Paris," says Athos, although he is not certain what effect it will have on him when he returns home for the first time in years.

 

\--- 

 

Workers on the estate watch with curious eyes as the two men ride between the rows of cottages, a hiss of intrigued whispers drifting from person to person, an accompaniment as they pass by. "It must be him. It _is_ him."

The large stone building is at one with its surroundings, weather beaten into a soft shade of beige that blends in with the unkempt gardens. It's unloved and has lain unwanted for a long time, but now offers them a refuge from the dreaded heat, provided Athos can exorcise the ghosts of his past.

He comes here now as a different man: a new name, a new position in life and with a new lover in whom he has complete faith. Anne was never someone to rely on; he loved her only for her wildness and her dangerous spirit. She filled him with a lust for life that had always been lacking and for that he can thank her--gone though she might be--for that urgency is still strong within him.

"Yours?" asks Treville, as they dismount and tether their horses.

"Mine indeed," replies Athos, opening the doors and stepping back in time.

"You have a story to tell, my lad." Treville removes the dust sheets from furniture and opens the shutters.

"Don't we all?"

Acknowledging this with a subtle nod of the head Treville opens a set of doors and surveys the hallway. "This place is vast."

"I hope the beds will prove big enough for you also." 

His days here may have ended in misery, but Athos is finally a happy man and his love for Treville overrides any other emotion. They approach each other, weariness from the day's ride forgotten, and things are beginning to heat up between them when they're disturbed by a knock.

"Confound it," snaps Athos and he opens the door to see one of his former kitchen maids carrying a basket packed to the brim with produce.

"I thought you might be in need of some food, Sir," she says, dipping in respect and handing over the goods.

"Thank you, Marie. That's very kind of you indeed." Athos is moved that she thinks of him so well after years away. He takes the basket gratefully; neither he nor Treville had considered such simple necessities so keen were they to escape the foulness of Paris.

"You've looked after us, Sir. It's the least we can do." She bobs her head and leaves them alone once more.

"We have food," says Athos, closing the door and turning to face Treville.

"I have baser needs at present," says the captain, taking the basket from Athos's hands and placing it on the dresser. Cupping Athos's face with gloved hands he surges forward and kisses the living daylights out of him until he is breathless and aching.

"The things you do to me," Athos gasps, coming up for air.

"The things I _will_ do to you when finally you show me to this big bed of yours," growls Treville, peppering his face and neck with rough kisses.

Athos leads the captain to his bedroom, opening the shutters and letting light into a space that hasn't seen any for a long time. With neither worry nor sadness in mind he turns to Treville, stripping away his weaponry and garments until the man is naked, his erection jutting proudly.

"Now to you," says Treville, running his hands lasciviously over Athos's leather clad body.

Escaping him with a smile that's full of intent Athos throws aside his own weapons and drops to his knees. "I'll suck you first," he says, his mouth already fastened around Treville's cock by the time the last syllable is spoken.

Treville wrestles him up and over to the bed. "I'll have you first," he says, his eyes burning with desire as he pushes Athos down and strips him of his clothing.

Athos stutters in an excited breath. He adores Treville when he's in this mood, hot blooded and lusty. He also needs, more than anything, to be _had_ by him. "There's lamp oil here," he says, knowing that this is something Porthos and Aramis make use of to ease the way.

Treville takes Athos in his arms and kisses him soundly. "Is this something you want?" he asks carefully.

"It is. Very much indeed," replies Athos, reaching over and uncorking the jug of oil then pouring a little into Treville’s cupped palm and some in his own. Lying face to face he takes Treville's cock in one oiled hand and his own in the other and the feel of that slickness skidding over matching columns of engorged flesh is almost too much to bear.

Treville slides an arm around him, encouraging him to lift his thigh and he does as he's bid, hitching in a breath at the sensation of a finger touching him. It's strange, nice perhaps, but when he closes his eyes in order to fully experience the feeling the fear is back, stabbing him with such an intensity he feels sick. Opening his eyes immediately he concentrates on Treville, knowing that it is him and only him who is touching him in that most private place.

"Good?" asks Treville as his finger probes further and then reaches somewhere inside that is all manner of pleasures rolled into one. His expression must give the truth away as Treville smiles and kisses him on the lips. "Bedding another man is a different kind of delight."

Another finger pushes its way in and Athos rocks against the tips, panting now as he seeks out that moment of not quite orgasm over and over again. Bereft when Treville withdraws from him, he keens with need as Treville pulls him to hands and knees and settles behind him, crooning words of-

_Beaten bloody they turn him, throw him down and fuck him: fist, pistol, cock, knife._

"There's my lad."

No, not again. "Please. Don't. _Please_."

"Look at me, Athos." 

Once again he's safely back in Treville's arms. 

"Open your eyes. Look at me."

Athos does so, staring into a face that's full of sorrow where there should be none. 

"I'll never hurt you."

"I know." Athos heaves out that panic stricken breath he's been holding on to and keeps his eyes firmly fixed on Treville. "I know; I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"It's my fault. It's too soon. I shouldn't even-"

Athos shushes him quiet. "I want you; I need to see you is all."

It takes a long while of kissing, talking, touching--all of these things accompanied by deep pulls on a bottle of claret that Athos has fetched from the cellar--but eventually they relax enough to be hard for each other again. "I _will_ have you in me," says Athos as he lies on top of Treville, braced on an arm as they thrust together, cocks sliding slick on a passage of oil and precome.

"I'll fuck you when you're ready for me and not a moment before." Treville pushes up from the mattress and Athos writhes helplessly against him.

"I need you in me," he says, halfway to drunk as he feeds Treville sips of wine from the bottle. "I need you to touch that place in me. I don't even know- What is that place?"

"It's good is all anyone needs to know," says Treville bluntly.

Athos kneels up fully, straddling Treville's hips, his legs braced either side, and taking Treville's cock in his hand he squirms back and down until the tip is caressing his hole.

Treville's eyes widen, his emotions a mess: fear, desire, love all mixed up together and written clear on his face. "Damn it, Athos, I won't have you torture yourself this way."

"Let me try. Please." He needs something good inside him to transcend all of that ugly horror.

Perhaps Treville understands, at very least he nods, and Athos sinks down an inch, tensing up then relaxing as he grows accustomed to being filled.

"Dear god!" Treville continues on in an endless litany as Athos rears above him, taking him deeper and deeper into his body.

A shunt of the hips has Athos crying out in pleasure as he jostles from side to side, his nerves jangling and singing at the exquisite feel. He hardens to it, the thrumming heat of blood driving him on as he rides Treville's cock.

"Keep your eyes on me," his captain commands and Athos does as ordered, gazing intently as Treville reaches out to catch hold of his hand, wetting the palm with open mouthed kisses. "Touch yourself."

Again he follows orders, his cock so engorged now that it's a painful pleasure as he strokes it in time with the fuck. Treville's eyes dart over him hungrily, watching every movement, and as he bucks up hard, slamming deep inside Athos, he cries out in a voice thickened with desire and Athos can feel that flood of wet heat inside him. 

This could invoke his demons if he were to let them take over, but he is safe in the knowledge that there is only goodness and love and care to be found here. Instead of allowing the fear to haunt him he arches up proud, fist flying over his cock as he hits that teetering head rush and then comes, painting Treville in streaks of white just the way he likes it.

"My dearest man," says Treville, pulling Athos into his arms.

Athos doubts he has ever been anyone else's dearest anything, but, as before, he hears and believes what Treville has said and wonders how three small words can manufacture such a great amount of sentiment within him.

 

\---

 

They spend their leave days as every soldier does: drinking, fucking, eating and sleeping. Pastimes that can never be beaten.

"I had a wife when I lived here," says Athos as they dine alfresco on their second evening, lying together beneath the branches of a willow with the stream running past them to cool the air. "She was a liar and I was a dupe. I thought I loved her with all my heart and that the love was reciprocated on her part, but it turns out she was a common criminal. She murdered my brother Thomas when he found out and I had her hanged."

"That's terrible," says Treville and he sounds as shocked as Athos expected. It's not a pretty tale.

He's lying on his back with his head on Treville's chest and as the story is told he rolls to one side, face pressed into Treville’s neck. "That's why I left here and joined the regiment."

Treville turns his head to drop a kiss to the top of Athos's head. "It must have been near impossible to walk away."

"It was the easiest thing I've ever done," Athos confesses. It's the simple truth. He never wished to be Comte; the servants made him uncomfortable as a child and he didn’t look forward to a life spent in and out of court. 

Coming home, however, has been a release. Once upon a time he carried the guilt over Anne's death with him everywhere he went, quite literally in the form of a locket she had given him. The chain is gone, stolen by one of Vallion's men most likely, and he has not missed its weight about his neck. Being back at La Fère has finally proved to him that his hasty decision to execute his wife, if not the right thing to do, was made for all the right reasons. She is gone and he is free of her at last.

Treville has his own confession to make. "I wish we could stay here,” he says. “One more night is not enough."

"You'd hate it," laughs Athos. "Making nice with the King and the nearby nobility is a bore; you know that."

"I'd run the estate as a gentleman farmer," says Treville with a look of utter contentment about his face. "Good, honest, Gascon work."

"We'll do that when we're old and grey and unfit for soldiering," says Athos, his hand wandering beneath the coarse linen of Treville's shirt. "In the meantime we'll come here as often as we can and fuck our way through every room in the house."

Treville smiles and twists a strand of Athos’s hair around his finger until it falls into ringlet. "Comte you might be as far as the charters dictate, but to me you're a delightfully dirty young man who I intend to have right now."

"As an entrée," drawls Athos as he fastens his mouth over Trevillle’s nipple, flicking the engorged nub with his tongue and then biting softly until Treville grabs him and rolls him over onto his back.

The world around them dissolves into loving kisses and, curtained from sight by the drapery of the willow tree, the two men make the most of their final evening at La Fère.

 

\---end


	3. Rough Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based around 1.1. Three years on, Athos and Treville are enjoying a happy life together when Athos is arrested then found guilty of robbery and murder and sentenced to execution by firing squad.

"Athos, I'm sorry," says Treville and his demeanour is all wrong. "These men have come to arrest you. You’ve been charged with robbery and murder and I promised them there'd be no trouble." Unnoticed by others the captain strokes a hand over Athos' arm. "Believe me, I'll do everything in my power to resolve this," he adds in a low voice.

Athos _does_ believe him, of course he does, and even as he’s taken to the palace to stand trial he is still in no doubt of the outcome, because he's an innocent man and this is a mistake. Why would anyone accuse him of such preposterous things?

He's not frightened as he stands in front of the King, but he is furious to hear such slanderous words from the mouths of the so called witnesses. Nor is he frightened when he hears the verdict and sentence of execution that follows it because he _is_ guilty of a crime and deserves to pay his dues, even if it is not the one for which he will die. He is dreadfully sorry, though, to see the effect this is having on his friends and, most of all, Treville.

They've been together for the past three years, ever since Treville helped him recover after being raped by Vallion and his men. Bed partners, lovers, companions: none of these words come close to describing what they are to each other. Athos hates to see him brought so low, 'though no one else would recognise the unshed tears in his eyes. He'd fight this verdict purely for Treville's sake, but there is simply no point; there is only death. But before death lies prison and that is the one thing that _does_ frighten him.

"Athos," says Treville as he is bound and dragged past him to be carted off. "Athos, I'll petition the King. I'll clear your name."

"There is no time," says Athos and he tries to convey every word he needs to say into one contained look.

A Musketeer in the Châtelet is never going to be welcomed by the inmates. As the manacles are hammered onto Athos' wrists, jeers ring out from the windows surrounding the courtyard and he looks up, memories flooding back to him of the last time he was this vulnerable. Panic rises, the acid of bile burning his throat, and as he is dragged through the passageways and thrown into a straw lined cell he wishes, quite simply, for a captor as erratic as Vallion. He could outsmart him and escape. In this fortress, he has no chance.

Sitting as close to the bars as possible, he hunches over on himself as a means of disguise, but the cell is far from empty and he is better known to the criminals of Paris than King Louis himself.

"What have we here?" says a voice, laden with interest. "A Musketeer? The Musketeer Athos no less. What have you and your pretty face been doing to get thrown in jail with the likes of us?" Feet shuffle forwards. "Here lads. How often have you wanted to get even with this bastard? Well, now's your opportunity."

Athos doesn't look up and he doesn't answer, but he counts the legs closing in around him and knows that, once again, he is in deep trouble. He may not need the firing squad after all.

 

\---

 

"Well?" says Aramis, looking up as he paces the yard.

"No good," says Treville and his heart is in his mouth, but he must remain calm because panic will not help Athos. "To my office, gentlemen." 

Porthos bars d'Artagnan at the foot of the steps with an arm and a shake of the head. "Musketeer business," he says. "Go to Mme Bonacieux's house. We'll most likely need to see you after we've spoken to the captain."

Aramis races up the stairs, his weapons clattering, and is pacing once more by the time Treville enters the room. "What do we do?" he asks.

"If you want to help Athos then find Cornet," says Treville bluntly.

"Yes, sir," says Porthos, already halfway out of the door, full of that unquestioning loyalty for which Treville will always be grateful.

"You will visit Athos in the Châtelet," says Aramis quietly and it's a statement rather than a question.

"I can't," says Treville. He would give anything to see the man--make certain all is well and say goodbye if necessary--but his position as captain of the King's Musketeers will not allow him to do so.

"You must," insists Aramis. "Remember the last time he was held captive."

The last time Athos was captured he escaped by the skin of his teeth, but the time before that he had not been not so lucky. 

Treville can no longer suppress the panic and his only hope is that he keeps it well hidden. Inside his head he's back in that darkly lit room, seeing those ruined, bloodstained undergarments for the first time and realising what has happened to his man. Because Athos has always been his, although, up until then, he'd only ever loved him from afar. Athos has been his from the moment Treville accepted him into the company, recognising a kindred spirit in that wounded yet resilient soul.

"Like the King, I cannot show favouritism," says Treville and it hurts him to utter these words, because it's so terribly unjust that he cannot show bias towards the man he has bedded and loved for three years. "You know I'd do anything to change it."

Aramis is less than impressed and is about to speak his mind again when Porthos takes his arm. "We'll question the boy then go find Cornet. We haven't enough time to waste any of it arguing."

Porthos is right. Athos has hours left to live.

 

\---

 

With relief Athos knows for certain that the prisoners are not intending to do anything more than toy with him. They will not risk any chance they might have for release over the murder of a Musketeer, but unfortunately this does not allay his fears which are involuntary and over-reactive.

He is neither tall nor burly, but he's quick on his feet with reflexes that are no longer dulled by alcohol. In a series of one to one fights he overwhelms his opponents easily, using his chains, his feet, every damn part of him as a weapon, but it's when they set upon him in a pack that his will to survive and animal instincts take over. He will not be raped again.

Scared of his ferocity the men retreat to a respectful distance and leave him curled up by the bars, scraped and bruised, but mostly undamaged. It is here that the priest discovers him when he comes to hear his final confession. "Find some poor soul who needs forgiveness, Father," he says wearily. "Don't waste your time with me." He will go to his grave without God at his side.

When the time comes for execution the priest is present again, urging Athos once more to confess his sins so that he might have a chance of redemption. He ignores him, holding his head high as he's pushed down the steps to stand in front of the flint wall. He's not offered the dignity of a blindfold. He is a King’s Musketeer turned murderer: the lowest species of all. A murderer turned Musketeer.

The gun barrels stare him down. He looks at the faces surrounding him, but Treville is not amongst them and will not witness the end of his life. Perhaps that is a good thing, although he would have liked one last chance to see the man who brought him back from the edge of despair and proved that there was goodness as well as duty contained within him. He would have liked the opportunity to say goodbye.

"Shoot, damn you," he yells and as he prepares himself for death he hears familiar dulcet tones coming from above. 

"Hold your fire." Aramis walks towards Athos waving a scroll. "If I were you I wouldn't be in such a hurry to die. Here is your release signed by the King."

His breath is quick in his chest, the adrenaline has risen with nowhere to go and, because of it, his heart is pounding. He is surrounded by friendly faces now, but none of them belong to the man he wishes to see most of all. 

"Treville is with the King," explains Porthos, his mouth close to Athos' ear. "He had to get the official stay of execution signed and then sweet talk His Majesty afterwards. He would be here with you if he could; you know he would." 

"I know," says Athos. "I understand," and his voice does not sound familiar even to his own ears.

"You okay?" A paw of a hand clamps down on his shoulder and Athos looks up at the big man with gratitude.

"I am now," he says simply.

After they take him to the smith to have his manacles removed Aramis examines the abraded skin on his wrists and it's then that he notices the extra cuts and bruises that were not present when he went into prison. "You've been in a fight," he says, concern apparent in his eyes.

He's terrified for him Athos realises with a wave of affection. "Everything is fine," he says, his lips curling into a half smile. "I am fine, ‘though I admit I could do with a stiff drink."

"Couldn't we all," says Porthos and for the first time Athos notices that the boy is still with them and wonders why. Porthos sees his raised eyebrow and laughs. "If it wasn't for d'Artagnan and his ability to fire a pistol you'd be heading for the graveyard by now."

"He also persuaded Mme Bonacieux to dress up as a prostitute to act as a distraction," laughs Aramis, his composure regained. "Although, as we are all aware, she would do anything in her power to keep you from harm."

Athos smiles; Constance will always be a dear friend and one of his staunchest defenders. "The tavern?" he says hopefully. There has been enough talk for one day and the only action he requires is that which he hopes will take place between the bedsheets later in the evening.

Their usual alehouse is jam packed with customers, which comes as a relief to Athos as it means he can hide amongst the shadows at a solitary table with a single minded plan to drink himself senseless. It has been a worrying experience from start to finish, never mind the fact that bad memories have resurfaced and need to be tamped down.

He's glad that Aramis and Porthos understand his need for solitude and are happy to sit near him and play cards. The boy is more confused, but his questions are dealt with efficiently.

"Athos."

He looks up and smiles openly at Treville; he’s no more than a quarter of the way through his first bottle, but the wine has relaxed him enough to be unguarded for once. "Sit with me and have a drink."

"I'd rather we talk," answers Treville and it is a euphemism because Athos knows exactly what they will do once they return to the lodging house and he's already hardening at the thought.

"What's going on now?" d'Artagnan asks as he notices them leave the tavern with undisguised haste, the bottle of wine left unwanted on the table.

"The captain needs to pump him for information," explains Porthos wryly and Athos imagines the amused look that will pass between his two friends and loves them all the more for it.

 

\---

 

In the privacy of the bedchamber Treville covers Athos’ face with kisses. "How close did I come to losing you?"

"A hair’s breadth," admits Athos, taking Treville's mouth in greedy fashion. He needs this grounding, they both do. They need touch to reassure themselves that they are alive and still half of a couple.

"I would've never recovered," says Treville as he takes a step back and begins to rid them of their clothing. "We’ll go to La Fère. We'll live there as planned."

"You're over-reacting, my love," smiles Athos as he slithers a hand inside Treville's small clothes and grasps hold of his cock.

"I'll keep you safe at all costs," sighs Treville, canting his hips as Athos begins a steady stroke.

"I _am_ safe," he says. "I’m here. There’s no need to force retirement onto me just yet." He kneels and unlaces Treville's undergarments, watching them slide to the floor as the man stands naked before him. "I'll beg if you like." He rolls his tongue around the head of Treville's cock and then takes him fully into his mouth with a vacuum suck.

"Beg away," groans Treville, his hand threading into Athos' unruly hair as he rocks forward on his toes but then, after less than a minute has elapsed, he drops to his knees, cupping Athos' face. “I mean it. I would not have recovered from losing you. You are everything to me and, King be damned, I should have gone to the Châtelet and told you so in person when it mattered.”

Athos laughs and kisses him hard on the mouth. “What, in front of my cellmates? It was hard enough being a Musketeer in there, but a proven sodomite too. I would have attended my execution in pieces.” He kisses Treville, this time slow and lingering. “I knew you were thinking of me as I was of you. Now, shall we take this matter somewhere more comfortable?”

“There’s nothing I’d like better,” says Treville and it becomes a race to the bed with the captain winning by a nose, but only because Athos is trapped by his unloosed clothing and almost trips, laughing at his own misfortune as he undresses quickly and falls onto the mattress.

They narrow the gap and coil around each other, cocks pressed close together, mouths closer as they kiss and kiss and kiss and Athos allows that ball of fear within him to subside a little.

“My darling boy,” says Treville as he lifts Athos’ legs and thrusts his fingers inside, leaning forward to suck at his cock and noticing, for the first time, the cuts and bruises that cover Athos’ body. “They hurt you.”

“It’s nothing,” sighs Athos. “Just a little horseplay between prisoners. I swear I’m fine.”

“You promise?” says Treville, scissoring his fingers and inclining his head.

“I promise indeed,” says Athos. “But if you don’t take me in your mouth and suck me off soon I will not guarantee your own well being, captain.”

Treville laughs and ducks his head, taking Athos in fully and lavishing him with firm strokes of his tongue and twists of his fingers. 

Athos lies back, his heels resting on Treville's shoulders, the only tension in his body coming from an exquisite build to orgasm. He comes with a sigh of release, Treville swallowing every mouthful then nudging his cock into place and pushing into him. 

“Good?”

“Wonderful actually.” 

They have strict rules by which they must always abide: they only have sex face to face, they talk as they fuck, hushed words to reassure Athos that all is as it should be. Most importantly, Athos knows that he is to say the moment anything feels wrong.

Reassured by those two heartfelt words Treville covers him, fucking slowly into his body, gifting him with kiss after kiss and then coming eventually in such a rush of warmth that Athos feels it deep inside. Everything is very much as it should be and they fall asleep, sated, comforted and content, in each other’s arms.

Athos doesn’t know how much later it is when he opens his eyes, blinking himself to wakefulness, unsure why he is overwhelmed by such a bottomless pit of fear. Automatically he reaches for Treville, but the man is not there. Nor would he be because Athos is still at the Châtelet. It was a dream that he had been released by the King and now he must face the reality of the firing squad all over again.

“Confess your sins,” says the priest. “Confess your sins or you will burn.”

“I will not,” says Athos.

“Confess, Musketeer,” says the priest. “I know how much you love a cock up the arse.”

Athos whips his head around to see the greying corpse of Vallion on the other side of the bars, his rotting body naked but for a biretta perched jauntily on his head. 

“Guess what, lads,” Vallion calls to the prisoners. “I taught this Musketeer to enjoy being sodomised and in return he murdered me. Is that the way to treat a lover?” There was a strip of skin that had peeled away from Vallion’s cheek, and Athos watched fascinated as it wafted around on the currents of breath. “What say you have a little fun with him right now. He’ll take a few cocks. He's been known to take as many as twelve at one sitting.”

The prisoners from the Châtelet pile on top of Athos until he is suffocating and sore from misuse, but however fiercely he tries, he cannot break free.

 

\---

 

The whimpering wakes Treville and, leaning over, he lights the lantern and is distressed to find Athos huddled into the corner. “Athos, everything’s fine. You’re safe now. You’re in bed with me where you belong.”

Treville tries to soothe the man with a hand to his knee, but that immediately sparks off another wave of panic.

“Go away. Please go away,” he begs. “Don’t do this to me again.”

“Athos, wake up.”

“No. No. No. No. No.” 

Each word is elongated and agonised, chilling Treville’s blood until he’s close to screaming. “If those prisoners in there raped you then I’ll rip every last one of them to shreds and I don’t give a damn if I hang for it.” There’s a howl of anguish in the room and it’s only when Athos shakes him repeatedly that Treville realises the sound is coming from his own mouth.

“Treville!”

Breath coming in spasms he clasps his arms around Athos with the intention of never letting go. “You said they didn’t hurt you,” he says in a voice that's too loud, too angry.

“They didn’t. I would tell you if they had,” says Athos, words warm against Treville's chest and he's feverish from upset but he's also _hard_ : painfully erect by the feel of things. He pulls back, startled as if he’s only now become aware of his state of arousal, but Treville is ready and holds him fast, preventing his escape. 

“They’re just dreams, Athos.”

“Bad ones,” confesses Athos in a voice that is barely audible. “Confusing ones.” He pauses and shivers. “Why, in God’s name, am I aroused from a nightmare of being raped in a prison?”

“Because you’re a normal man with normal urges,” says Treville, loosening himself with spit wet fingers then raising his legs. Athos nudges inside him, swollen beyond normal. It’s a tight fit but Treville can manage him.

“I spent while I was being raped by Vallion’s men,” says Athos in a monotone. “Is that a normal urge too? I was cut inside with a dagger then raped repeatedly and I spent. What is wrong with me?”

It’s the first time he’s spoken directly about his assault since the night it happened, so perhaps the events of today have broken down a barrier. Treville bears down on Athos, begins to move until they’re rocking gently together. “We respond as men with base male instincts,” he says. “Nothing more. You don’t want to rape me, or me to rape you?”

“Of course I don’t,” says Athos indignantly.

“Then there is nothing wrong with you.”

“But I never wanted to sleep with a man until it happened,” says Athos.

“Honestly?” Treville had been quite convinced for a while that Athos was being drawn into a ménage a trois with Aramis and Porthos. He’d been preparing himself for the heartbreak.

“I may have thought of it once or twice,” admits Athos and he braces himself on the bedstead and fucks into Treville with driving strokes of his cock. “I’m glad now I never acted on those thoughts.”

“As am I,” says Treville as he masturbates in time with Athos' powerful thrusts. “More than I can say.”

The conversation dies down as the sex between them heats up and Treville lies back and enjoys the feeling of being owned. This may turn out to be a long night, but a long night filled with loving, talking and comfort is all he could ever wish for. A few hours ago he was desolate, certain he would never see Athos again.

"Don't think of leaving me," he begs as he rolls them over until he's straddling Athos, cock lodged firmly in place inside him. The candle gutters and dies and for the sake of reassurance he leans forward, intermingling heady kisses with words of love until both men are gasping for release. When finally it happens it's a shared experience and, afterwards, Treville remains crouched over Athos until his legs cramp and the need for sleep overwhelms him.

The next time he awakes it’s to the chorus of people in the street and the heavy yellow hue of late morning sunshine. Athos is sleeping peacefully next to him and Treville brushes the hair out of the man's eyes, leaning forward to kiss his forehead, so overcome with gratitude that he still has him, in his bed and in his life, that he raises a silent prayer to God, giving thanks that his earlier intercessions were answered.

The quiet knocking at the outer door is not wholly unexpected seeing as noon is approaching and, gathering his thoughts, Treville pulls on breeches and shirt, not caring about his déshabillé. If it is a messenger from the King he will say he has been taken ill. Anyone else can go hang.

It's Aramis and Treville invites him through into the outer chamber of his lodgings.

"Is everything well, captain?"

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache that is beginning to form. "It's been a difficult night for him," he admits, knowing that both Aramis and Porthos can be trusted entirely. "But he's survived much worse."

"Tell him." Aramis pauses a moment. "Tell him we love him and that we'll see him soon," he says.

"I'll pass on your message." Treville is pleased that Aramis can be so open with him. "By the way, has that Gascon boy showed up at the garrison today?" he asks.

"He has indeed," says Aramis with a bright smile. "I think he has a hankering for the Musketeer life."

"I had a feeling he might," says Treville. "The lad shows potential so put him through his paces today and I'll be along later to see how he's shaping up."

"Will Athos be with you?"

"Of course," says Athos from the doorway, dressed only in his small clothes and leaning against the architrave as if he hasn't the energy to stand. He is smiling though, relaxed and happy. "Do you think I would miss seeing Porthos take that impertinent brat down a peg or two?"

Aramis folds his arms and grins. "It will be a sight to behold."

Stepping forward into the room, Athos approaches his friend. "Aramis, thank you. I appreciate your efforts at keeping me alive."

Aramis, ever the emotional one of the three, embraces him. "If we'd been a minute later..."

"But you weren't and that is the point."

They cling to each other and Treville is far from jealous because he understands camaraderie and brotherhood and the inseparable ties that bind his best soldiers together. They may not be partners in bed, but in all other aspects of life they are as close as three men could be.

"I'll see you at the garrison," says Athos as Aramis finally lets go of him and is about to leave.

"Make sure you have a bath first," laughs Aramis with a wave of his hat. "You stink like a mated dog fox."

"The cheek of the man," snorts Athos when he is gone.

"He's probably right," says Treville. "I'll ask the landlady to prepare a tub."

When he returns from the kitchen they lie in bed a while with the door firmly locked, waiting for a call to say that the water is ready. It's good to hold each other, better still to exchange kisses, and it’s a disappointment to end this quiet time together just for the sake of being clean.

"I stand no chance of persuading you into a easier life then?" says Treville as he sits by the side of the bath watching Athos lather up.

"I'm afraid not." Athos smiles at him. "Soldiering suits me for now. I have everything I could possibly want here."

"And when things go wrong as they did yesterday?"

"Then we will deal with the repercussions together, as we did yesterday." Athos sluices down then vacates the tub and Treville takes his place.

"I will not lose you," insists Treville, washing himself thoroughly with soap.

"We've been through this already," says Athos as he dries off and gets dressed. "It would break my heart to lose you also, but life is a dangerous game and one we both enjoy playing." He takes the bar of soap from Treville and brings it to a lather, massaging the suds across his back and shoulders. "I know for a fact that neither of us would be happy stagnating in the country."

Treville sighs with utter pleasure at the feel of Athos’ hands on him. "Maybe not yet," he admits ruefully.

"But when you're determined you've had enough of military service I promise I will go with you," says Athos as he holds out a dry towel. "Purely for selfish reasons, though, because I couldn't bear us to be apart."

"We have a deal then," says Treville as he steps into Athos' waiting arms and if not overjoyed he's at least satisfied with the outcome. Although he'll be watching over his man like a fierce parent for the foreseeable future, he's a little more convinced that it's the right decision for both of them.

They arrive at the garrison together, a small oversight but not one that Treville regrets. He's made it clear from becoming captain of this regiment that he values his men above all else and it's not unexpected that he would take care of Athos after the events of yesterday.

They watch with amusement as Porthos brushes d'Artagnan aside, teaching him over and over again the correct holds then laughing loud and long as he uses his physical presence to overwhelm the lad. All of a sudden, with a move based on quick wits rather than strength, d'Artagnan upends Porthos and the big man falls to the mats.

"Bravo, d'Artagnan," cheers Aramis.

Athos claps and Treville notices immediately the way the boy lights up at his applause. It will be good for Athos to have someone to mentor.

"He has the potential to be a fine soldier," says Athos and Treville smiles. This is definitely not the right time for retirement.


End file.
